Obsession
by Trella
Summary: Sydney. Sark. Mind Games. (UPDATED :: Where's Chechnya and why in the world does Sydney have to go there, anyway)
1. Falling

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surpise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Will would've died a long time ago. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Just a little peek into Sydney's head. or how I want it anyway. (  
  
Rating: G  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
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Falling.  
  
Such a strange word.  
  
Falling.  
  
It brought feelings of hardness, of pain.  
  
Falling.  
  
Losing control, spinning through space.  
  
Falling.  
  
She hated it. And loved it.  
  
Falling.  
  
The first thing she always thought of was black space.  
  
Falling.  
  
Then came a hard, concrete floor.  
  
Falling.  
  
Her head, striking the ground, the pain ringing through her body.  
  
Falling.  
  
And then something else came.  
  
Falling.  
  
It wasn't physical anymore. Well, not really.  
  
Falling.  
  
Soft, fuzzy, warm.  
  
Falling.  
  
Light filling a dark room.  
  
Falling.  
  
A slight smile here, a grazing touch there. Sending shivers down her spine.  
  
Falling.  
  
How ironic it was that she, Sydney Bristow, controlled, strong, super-spy, was falling for the one man she couldn't - wouldn't - let herself have.  
  
Falling.  
  
For someone with no first name.  
  
Falling.  
  
For someone who didn't even have green eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
Falling.  
  
  
  
For an enigma she didn't know how to decipher.  
  
Falling.  
  
For the ever-clichéd enemy.  
  
Falling.  
  
For Sark. 


	2. Axis

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Will would've died a long time ago. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: "The universe has indeed tilted on its own axis."  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
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The last time he did this, he almost died.  
  
  
  
Not that dying was the worst thing that could happen, but still.  
  
  
  
He'd rather avoid it. Or, even better, deny everything all together.  
  
  
  
There was no way in hell it would work.  
  
  
  
There was no way in hell he could actually be thinking about this.  
  
  
  
He was flawless in everything that he did. From his immaculate dress to his lightning fast, fluid movements, he was in every way the perfect player.  
  
  
  
But he had just fallen from grace. To the feet of someone he could never figure out no matter how hard he tried.  
  
  
  
He could lie and deny it vehemently. And he did.  
  
  
  
But no matter what he said or did, he couldn't lie to himself. Because, to quote a line from a great book, "I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me."  
  
  
  
The first time was painful enough. But he had been younger, hadn't seen or known as much. It had hardened him even more, and he had learned from his mistakes.  
  
  
  
Or so he thought.  
  
  
  
And yet, even after everything he'd endured, here he was, falling back into the same trap.  
  
  
  
No, no, no, he couldn't be. No fucking way he was feeling these emotions again. Not the ones he had locked up and shoved in some shelf never to be felt again.  
  
  
  
He couldn't be obsessed with her. People like him just didn't do things like that.  
  
  
  
They didn't think of how good her hair smelled after just shampooing it with Pantene Pro-V, or how nice that little hint of Clinique Happy was.  
  
  
  
Or the tiniest showing of roots through the hair dye.  
  
  
  
Or the way her movements were so graceful and elegant, and yet so powerful.  
  
  
  
Or the way her cover up was just the smallest bit rubbed off right under her left eye, and a tinge of swollen red was showing through.  
  
  
  
  
  
And they didn't notice the way her amazing body fit so perfectly in that sexy dress.  
  
  
  
Nope, he wasn't obsessed. Not at all.  
  
  
  
Not at all.  
  
  
  
But here he was, admiring the view from his balcony (but wishing it was her instead), swirling his Petreuse ('82 of course), thinking about her.  
  
  
  
Yes, he was obsessed. Again.  
  
  
  
The core of his very being protested, knowing it was wrong and against the very laws of nature.  
  
  
  
Still, here it was, clearer than the crystal goblets he drank his precious Cabernets from.  
  
  
  
Mr. Sark, smooth, evil, assassin, had fallen for super-spy Sydney Bristow.  
  
  
  
The universe has indeed tilted on its own axis. 


	3. Thinking

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary:  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
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Sark.  
  
  
  
Cocky bastard.  
  
  
  
What is it with him? Trying to recruit me...  
  
  
  
Every time I turn around, he's there with that freaking smirk and the damn gun.  
  
  
  
Geez.  
  
  
  
And his accent...  
  
  
  
Dammit.  
  
  
  
I'm doing it again, thinking about him. And I'm going to see Vaughn.  
  
  
  
What the fuck is wrong with me?  
  
  
  
I haven't encountered an agent this good since Anna. I wonder where that bitch went...  
  
  
  
Ugh. I hate Sark.  
  
  
  
His eyes are such a clear blue. It's like they're laughing at you and looking solemn and professional at the same time.  
  
  
  
They never change when he pulls the trigger.  
  
  
  
He's a cold-blooded killer.  
  
  
  
But maybe he just does what he has to do to stay alive...like me.  
  
  
  
No, not like me, never like me...what the hell am I thinking?  
  
  
  
He's so irritating.  
  
  
  
That smug expression on his face when he tries to foil my every plan...  
  
  
  
Great. Now I sound like some cheesy villain in those tacky action flicks that Will always watches or Brain in that cartoon about mice trying to take over the world.  
  
  
  
Now that I think about it, the Alliance isn't much different from them...They're both annoying, evil, rodents that deserve to be exterminated.  
  
  
  
I swear, this spy crap is seriously ebbing away at my sanity.  
  
  
  
God, I hate him.  
  
  
  
  
  
And he doesn't even have a first name. If Sark is even his real last name. It's like the whole Cher complex. Although I doubt she's an evil asshole who doesn't give a shit that her men were just blown to bits by her former boss.  
  
  
  
I still can't believe my mother...no, Irina...lied to me like that.  
  
  
  
How could she?!  
  
  
  
I don't think I've lost control on a mission like that since Badenweiler.  
  
  
  
Thank God Vaughn led me out of there.  
  
  
  
Sark hit him. I should kill him for that.  
  
  
  
If the moment came, would I?  
  
  
  
Could I?  
  
  
  
I don't know what I'm thinking...Of course I would. I'd wipe that damn smirk off of his face in a second. I wonder if his eyes would change then...  
  
  
  
His clear, blue eyes...I wonder what's behind them.  
  
  
  
Underneath his cool, calm, never-changing, goddam exasperating demeanor...Is there a man? Or is this it?  
  
  
  
God, I love him. I've never met a match until he came. Anna is no more harmless than Francie compared to him.  
  
  
  
Dammit, I'm thinking about him again.  
  
  
  
Or did I ever stop? 


	4. Time for the Stoli

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Sark. Obsession. :-D  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
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She's unbelievable.  
  
  
  
She's glorious.  
  
  
  
She's so damn irritating.  
  
  
  
I knew it was her at the launch site. I could almost see her face.  
  
  
  
That smug expression on her face when she tries to foil my every plan...  
  
  
  
Grand. Now I sound like one of those villain wannabes on those damn American movies or even worse, that irritating children's cartoon about mice trying to take over the world.  
  
  
  
Now that I think about it though, the Alliance closely resembles them. They are both bloody fools who deserve to be shot. If I didn't have a plan to put into action, I would be doing the shooting.  
  
  
  
I swear, not being with her is driving me crazy. Comparing fools to mice on an animated show.  
  
  
  
God, I love her.  
  
  
  
She's haunting me. Her face...her soulful brown eyes...  
  
  
  
Bloody hell, now I sound like a sodding love-sick teenage boys in those movies. Great, again with the pop culture references.  
  
  
  
She threw an ice-pick in my thigh. I don't think I've screamed like that since...well I can't remember. It's been a long time since someone took me by surprise.  
  
  
  
Looks like I've found my match.  
  
  
  
Her skill, her professionalism...and yet, she still has emotions. That pure, untouched part of her soul is still there.  
  
  
  
Interesting.  
  
  
  
Most interesting.  
  
  
  
She's the first agent I've encountered that hasn't been wholly corrupted by this spy crap.  
  
  
  
She's the first agent I've encountered that could fight back...and give me a run for my money.  
  
  
  
I wonder, in a fair, all-out fight between us, who would win.  
  
  
  
Her virtue may betray her.  
  
  
  
Or perhaps it will help her prevail.  
  
  
  
She intrigues me so...I wonder if she knows the truth about SD-6. I've often suspected treason on her part (in the eyes of that monkey, Sloane, anyway)...perhaps she is a double-agent for the CIA.  
  
  
  
No, I highly doubt that. She wouldn't last.  
  
  
  
Or maybe she would...  
  
  
  
That panicked, grieving expression on her face in Madagascar after my men were blown up in the building...I see it whenever I close my eyes.  
  
  
  
No matter, I'm bordering on insomnia anyways.  
  
  
  
The excellent red wine swirling in my glass is doing nothing to cure that.  
  
  
  
I wonder...who tipped her off? Surely, she could not guess the location of the operations manual on her own.  
  
  
  
Irina?  
  
  
  
No. My former boss would never allow herself to be caught by the pillocks of the Alliance. Or by the Disorganized Unintelligence Agency, for that matter.  
  
  
  
But if she had an ulterior motive...  
  
  
  
There is so much resemblance between Irina and her daughter. It is no wonder she makes such a good agent.  
  
  
  
And it is certainly no surprise that men are flocking after her.  
  
  
  
That spineless reporter, Will...he would die for her. But I think he knows she has strictly platonic feelings for him.  
  
  
  
But that pretty-boy agent that was with her in Madagascar...  
  
  
  
He interests me. I am sure I haven't seen him before, and yet, he looks vaguely familiar.  
  
  
  
And it is so damn obvious he's in love with her. A mere outsider would see that even without my keen senses of observation.  
  
  
  
He won't tell her though. He hides it to the point of denial.  
  
  
  
I learned long ago that denial does not work well with love.  
  
  
  
Perhaps with a passing infatuation, even to the point of obsession...but I have gone beyond that.  
  
  
  
For a time I wished that was all it was. But I know better...  
  
  
  
Perception is a skill I possess that gives me a great advantage...sometimes painstakingly so. At times I wish I wasn't so goddam perceptive of myself.  
  
  
  
At least I can hide it, unlike Mr. Wimpering Nosy Reporter or Captain Pretty over there.  
  
  
  
And now I am reduced to pettily insulting Sydney's men.  
  
  
  
I simply cannot allow this to continue.  
  
  
  
If my problem was eliminated...but I don't think I will bring myself to do that.  
  
  
  
I don't believe I can.  
  
  
  
I'm drowning in her. Although I doubt drowning feels so pleasant as this.  
  
  
  
And no matter how much of my Cabernet I consume, I can't forget her face, even more just a moment. Rather, it only magnifies it.  
  
  
  
It's been a while, but...  
  
  
  
Time for the Stoli.  
  
  
  
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A/N: Now if you would just press that beautiful purple button on the bottom and type pretty comments...Criticism is greatly welcomed; however, unjust flames will be used to make S'mores and then ignored. So how is it so far? Is continuation in order? 


	5. Again

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Sark. Again.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
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Sark. Again.  
  
  
  
Foiling my plans...again.  
  
  
  
Where'd he go...I'm really not looking forward to another one of those unpleasant turn-around-and-there's-a-gun-and-a-smirk surprises.  
  
  
  
Nope, no gun. Just...  
  
  
  
Locked doors. Smirk.  
  
  
  
"Agent Bristow. Those pipes are rigged to disperse ammonia fluorochloride. Wonderful for decontaminating metals and concrete. Not so good on organic materials, such as your suit. Or your skin."  
  
  
  
  
  
Ugh.  
  
  
  
Sodium fluorochloride. Definitely not good for my complexion.  
  
  
  
Ok, fine, if you must insist...  
  
  
  
Dammit. Bullet-proof glass.  
  
  
  
And there's the smirk.  
  
  
  
Again.  
  
  
  
"You and I, we're destined to work together. I truly believe that."  
  
  
  
Great, he's about 20 seconds away from having my suit melted off of my skin (which is also meltable...is that a word?) and he's talking about a business proposal? Between us?  
  
  
  
No, no, no, don't press the button...  
  
  
  
And of course, he presses the button.  
  
  
  
This is not a good day.  
  
  
  
"Of course, any future collaboration requires my turning the sprinkler system off."  
  
  
  
Sarcasm, domination, arrogance, and of course, smirking.  
  
  
  
"Notice your suit is already being eaten away. I'd give it another forty seconds. I could use your help. I need access to Arvin Sloane."  
  
  
  
What the hell? Sloane? Ok, ok, don't rise to the bait, don't rise to the bait...  
  
  
  
But I really don't feel like becoming the Wicked Witch of the West today...  
  
  
  
"Why?"  
  
  
  
Let's hope the bastard gives me a straight answer.  
  
  
  
"Because I intend to kill him."  
  
  
  
Ok, straight enough. And it doesn't sound like too bad of an idea...  
  
  
  
Hold on, wait a second. I can't just give Sloane to a cold-blooded, murderous, son of a bitch...hmmm. Well I do the same thing every time I leave Sloane alone by himself...  
  
  
  
This spy crap is getting to me.  
  
  
  
Wait. Am I seriously considering this?  
  
  
  
Well, it is for Vaughn...He only has a couple days to live. And this shower is really really getting to me, dammit.  
  
  
  
"I can get you to Sloane, but only if you promise to let me keep the antidote."  
  
  
  
Please don't ask who it's for, please, please, please...  
  
  
  
"No. Sloane first. Then you'll get back your precious antidote."  
  
  
  
That's a surprise. He doesn't care who it's for.  
  
  
  
But still...I can count off the top of my melting head the ways that this could go wrong.  
  
  
  
Screw it. I'll take his damn deal.  
  
  
  
He's made me play his game.  
  
  
  
Again. 


	6. Geisha

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Geishas and Sark.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
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I must say, that went surprisingly well.  
  
  
  
The surprise shower might have had something to do with that.  
  
  
  
God, I love that woman.  
  
  
  
I must say I was rather tempted to ask her who the antidote was for. But as her mother once said, truth takes time.  
  
  
  
I have all the time in the world.  
  
  
  
She can fit in anywhere. Whether in a bikini on a boat or a kimono as a geisha...she is magnificent.  
  
  
  
Better wish her luck...  
  
  
  
"I don't need you to wish me luck, you son of a bitch."  
  
  
  
Interesting.  
  
  
  
"That's a wonderful attitude."  
  
  
  
She's run into a guard. Her Japanese could use some work...  
  
  
  
And now to the good part of the show...violence.  
  
  
  
I have to admit I somewhat delight in it. It's the passion that draws me so...  
  
  
  
She's reached Sloane. I can just feel her cringing at the thought of massaging Sloane.  
  
  
  
Sometimes she is just so predictable.  
  
  
  
And now I get to listen to Sloane justifying Emily's (not-so-successful) murder. What a treat.  
  
  
  
It is time. Wait for it...  
  
  
  
She's screaming for help. If I had my way, she'd be screaming something else in a much more private room...  
  
  
  
No time for those thoughts at this moment. I must congratulate her...  
  
  
  
"You are so good, do you know that?" And now for my preparations... "Send the ambulance."  
  
  
  
And now she's so close I can almost taste her. God help me, her scent...As I said, no time for those thoughts right now.  
  
  
  
I do believe she thinks I was mocking her before.  
  
  
  
" It went well. Look, when I said "good luck" before, I wasn't mocking you."  
  
  
  
"Call in for your man to release the serum."  
  
  
  
Oh, all business now, are we?  
  
  
  
However, might as well hold up my part of the bargain.  
  
  
  
"Hand over the antidote. The security code is 10-11-92."  
  
  
  
I must now take my leave...  
  
  
  
"It was nice working with you."  
  
  
  
I half expect her to slap me or take some sort of frustrated action, but to my surprise, she does nothing but watch me.  
  
  
  
I find it almost strange that she does not try to stop me...if Sloane dies, it will no doubt lay heavily on that pretty conscience of hers, no matter how detestable that (man? monkey? cockroach?) is.  
  
  
  
That pain featured on her face...  
  
  
  
A conflict of conscience. Which is why I got rid of mine long ago.  
  
  
  
God, I love her. It takes everything I have not to just take her in my arms.  
  
  
  
But we couldn't have that, now could we? Professionals don't fall for their adversaries and least of all do they show their emotions...  
  
  
  
But no matter how infatuated I am with her...  
  
  
  
I simply cannot wait until she sees Sloane and me together. 


	7. Hate

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Sydney. Sark. Car chase.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
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A/N: It becomes slightly AU from here. Well, not really slightly, more like almost totally. :-D  
  
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C'mon, c'mon...  
  
  
  
Finally. I just wish I could total his brand-new Mercedes instead of merely catching up with it. Of all the nerve! Allying himself with Sloane, who he was supposed to kill! I gotta say, I'm more partial to the killing than the collaboration.  
  
  
  
Alright with the smirking already! Sometimes I just wanna kill him. But he does make life a lot spicier...nonono...I can't believe I'm thinking like this again...Ok, focus. Just say what you're here for then leave.  
  
  
  
"Are you here to wish me luck being my first day on the job or are you convinced I might reveal to Sloane that you conspired to kill him?"  
  
  
  
Looks like he knows what I'm here for.  
  
  
  
"I'm here to remind you what I hope is obvious but I don't want to overestimate your intelligence. If you burn me, I burn you."  
  
  
  
"Sydney, I couldn't reveal to Sloane that you conspired to kill him without also revealing my involvement. Of course, I never had any intention of going through with it. I simply needed to gain his trust."  
  
  
  
He's so damn irritating. Time for Snarky!Sydney...(too bad it's not Sarky!Sydney...ugh, no. Just don't think about him. Think about how annoying those...clear...blue eyes...are...)  
  
  
  
"You know what I think? You're just a dog looking for a new master."  
  
  
  
You know, just a little reaction would be nice...  
  
  
  
"No need to worry, Sydney, we're colleagues now."  
  
  
  
Guess not. Damn.  
  
  
  
Ok, just walk away...Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around...  
  
  
  
Why am I so damn weak-willed?  
  
  
  
"Yes?" He doesn't smirk this time.  
  
  
  
"Nothing." Just walk back to your car. Just go...  
  
  
  
"What happened in Madagascar?" His eyes aren't so clear anymore...  
  
  
  
No. The sun is just way too bright. I never liked sunny days, I don't know why. I guess I just love snow so much. Wait, focus, focus...  
  
  
  
"You mean the bombs?" C'mon, Sydney, compartmentalize.  
  
  
  
"I mean the theatrics that seemed to take over your body."  
  
  
  
Ugh. I can never win with him can I? What am I thinking? He's just an arrogant asshole who obviously has no sensitivity whatsoever.  
  
  
  
"Go to hell, Sark. I don't know what you're talking about, and if I did, it wouldn't be your business anyway."  
  
  
  
Well that was lame. Did that even make any sense?  
  
  
  
Oh, God, the smirk reappears. I swear, that thing has a life of its own. I wonder if it can kill as well as its master can...  
  
  
  
My sanity has officially disappeared.  
  
  
  
"No need to get defensive, Miss Bristow."  
  
  
  
Oh, so now it's back to Miss Bristow. First Agent Bristow, then Sydney, and now Miss.  
  
  
  
Just throw him a look that would kill if it could and walk back to your car. Just walk away.  
  
  
  
Finally. I did it.  
  
  
  
He's staring at me. Great, he's walking over here. Does he ever give up?  
  
  
  
I wonder if he would stop if I ran him over. Extremely appealing to me right now.  
  
  
  
Don't roll down the window. Don't let him get in another word, just drive...  
  
  
  
Seriously. What is wrong with me? The window's rolling...  
  
  
  
No smirk.  
  
  
  
"What? And make it quick, I have to get back to work. Unlike some people, I don't have the luxury of killing innocent people once in a while and then drinking ridiculously expensive red wine." Liar. I love Merlot.  
  
  
  
"Please, Miss Bristow. You pain me. I'll have you know I consume fine Russian vodka as well as my ridiculously expensive red wine."  
  
  
  
Why does he have to take me up on everything I say? Well, it's not like I don't do the same to him, I guess.  
  
  
  
"Sark..."  
  
  
  
He's all serious again.  
  
  
  
"If you feel you can't reveal anything about Madagascar...At least tell me about your wonderful CIA handler. How is he?"  
  
  
  
Shit, shit, shit...How the hell does he know about Vaughn? Ok, breathe, compartmentalize, breathe, compartmentalize...  
  
  
  
"Handler? Last I knew, SD-6 didn't employ the skills of one and I certainly know I don't have one." Just calm down, he's bluffing and being really annoying...it's nothing serious...  
  
  
  
"Really? Interesting...I could have sworn he was there in Madagascar...what was his name...Michael Vaughn?"  
  
  
  
Smirk.  
  
  
  
Dammit. How...  
  
  
  
He's reaching into his pocket. Wait, but he doesn't have a gun, or if he does, it's not in his pocket...  
  
  
  
Vaughn's watch.  
  
  
  
Ok no use keeping the act; for all I know he took a million pictures of us together.  
  
  
  
"How did you get that?"  
  
  
  
"It must have fallen off of your precious handler's wrist when he was running. It's a nice watch...doesn't go though. Might have stopped working in the blast that you so emotionally watched..."  
  
  
  
Stall. You need to get out of the car and confront Sark, because you sure as hell can't do it sitting down in your SUV. Ok, one, two, three...  
  
  
  
"Miss Bristow, please, give me some warning before you do that."  
  
  
  
Serves him right. He deserved that door in his chest.  
  
  
  
"What do you know?"  
  
  
  
"Why, Miss Bristow, I'm flattered. It seems I've finally piqued your interest."  
  
  
  
"I will ask only one more time. After that, you'll see that an ice-pick in your thigh is nothing. What do you know, Sark?"  
  
  
  
"I ran a fingerprint check on the watch. His name is Michael Vaughn and he works for the CIA...I can only assume that he is your handler. In more than one way, perhaps?"  
  
  
  
Slap. He deserved that even more than the door.  
  
  
  
"Getting angry, are we?"  
  
  
  
He's smirking again. Ugh.  
  
  
  
"What else do you know?"  
  
  
  
"His father was William Vaughn, am I correct?"  
  
  
  
"Was that even a question or are you just being a British?"  
  
  
  
"Now, now, Sydney, no need to get snippy. Your mother killed your precious handler's father, I believe."  
  
  
  
Thank you, Sark. As if I needed to be reminded of that extremely hard-to- forget fact.  
  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
  
"Are you a double agent?"  
  
  
  
What is with the rhetorical questions? Does he really have to revel in the fact that he finally found out my secret? All I need to know is whether he's going to betray me.  
  
  
  
"Yes."  
  
  
  
"I'm not going to betray you if that's what you were thinking."  
  
  
  
He's reading me like a bulletin board. I hate him, I really do.  
  
  
  
"And I'm supposed to, what, take your word on that?"  
  
  
  
Why is he coming closer to me? I'll just back away...Well, I would, really, except my comfy yet stylish boots seem to be rooted to the pavement.  
  
  
  
"Would you like me to seal it with a kiss instead?"  
  
  
  
Oh, God, oh, God...I wonder what he would think if he knew how much I'm not objecting to that...  
  
  
  
Grrr...Argh. Don't think like that, Syd, just stop right there...Gather yourself and compartmentalize. Just breathe.  
  
  
  
"Yes, Sark, that is my heart's greatest desire. It pains me how well you know me." Add a seething look of contempt to top off the sarcasm...and hope he doesn't notice your defense mechanism...  
  
  
  
"And there's the biting sarcasm dripping off of you and onto the road."  
  
  
  
Dammit.  
  
  
  
And why, may I ask to whomever will listen, is he coming even closer?  
  
  
  
"Sark...What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
  
  
Please do not come any closer. I repeat, please...do...not...  
  
  
  
"Why, is it so wrong for me to get a good look at Miss Double Agent? I must say, you are remarkably resilient. Even more so that I originally thought. I have to admit that I am impressed."  
  
  
  
Smirk...If he wasn't so damn hot I'd remove his face without another thought...No, wait, I didn't mean hot, I meant...important to the CIA that I don't blow my cover...  
  
  
  
"What is it that you want from me?"  
  
  
  
Oops. I shouldn't have asked that.  
  
  
  
"Well..."  
  
  
  
I can't keep the frustration from my face. Ugh...Ok, just close your eyes, compose yourself, face him again...a nice face, I gotta say...  
  
  
  
"Don't answer that. What I meant was, quit the mind games and tell me straight out. What are you going to do with the information you have?"  
  
  
  
"I've already told you I won't betray you. Other than that, you need not know anything unless I see otherwise."  
  
  
  
I wonder if my dad would see it necessary to have him killed. He doesn't trust him. Wait, neither do I.  
  
  
  
Actually...I have to say that Sark never went against his word. Not to say that I trust him. Absolutely not. But he does hold to his word...  
  
  
  
"If you are contemplating whether or not to tell your father or perhaps Captain Armani Model the Handler, I would advise against it. My word is my bond and I will also give you my word not to harm or expose your father or your precious boy toy."  
  
  
  
Again with the reading me like a book. I hate it when he does that.  
  
  
  
"Vaughn isn't my-"  
  
  
  
"I apologize. I meant no disrespect. But now I fear I must take my leave. I have some business left to carry out before I return to my ridiculously expensive red wine, as you so aptly put it. Farewell, Miss Bristow."  
  
  
  
With that, he turns away to his shiny Mercedes and drives off without a glance back at me.  
  
  
  
I really hate him.  
  
  
  
Detest him.  
  
  
  
Loathe him.  
  
  
  
Who am I kidding...I'm in love with that bastard. 


	8. Control

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Sark on control.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------  
  
So she is a double agent.  
  
  
  
My passing suspicions were, indeed, correct.  
  
  
  
And her handler is obviously in love with her.  
  
  
  
Tsk, tsk, tsk. Against protocol, are they? Emotional attachments can be just so dreadful.  
  
  
  
But then, who am I to speak?  
  
  
  
It kills me how well Sloane thinks he knows Sydney. It took me all I had not to burst out laughing when he said that Sydney would believe whatever he told her to. Oh, the irony.  
  
  
  
I didn't intend to arouse any sort of suspicion about Sydney, but I did have to make certain that Jack didn't know our plan. However, I suspect he will find out soon enough.  
  
  
  
Ah, just as I thought.  
  
  
  
"Sir, we've just received some intel regarding the Bristows. They've been sent Kashmir to disarm the nuclear warheads."  
  
  
  
"Very well. Close my door on your way out."  
  
  
  
"Yessir."  
  
  
  
It's good to be in control.  
  
  
  
But with Sydney...Control isn't something anyone has over her.  
  
  
  
Although she did seem rather...submitting when I revealed to her what I knew. It was difficult to tell, however, through her dark sunglasses.  
  
  
  
I doubt anyone's ever been able to control her.  
  
  
  
God, she's good.  
  
  
  
I've never met anyone like her. And I sound like a lovesick teenager yet again.  
  
  
  
Bloody hell.  
  
  
  
Wonderful. More interruptions.  
  
  
  
"Mr. Sark, sir?"  
  
  
  
"Do you have anything for me?"  
  
  
  
"Uh, yessir. Irina Derevko is leading the team in Kashmir."  
  
  
  
I should have known. So she does have some sort of plan...  
  
  
  
"One more thing, sir. It seems she is in CIA custody and the Bristows were not, in fact, sent out by SD-6; they were sent by the CIA."  
  
  
  
Someone other than me knows. Well, we can't have that, now, can we?  
  
  
  
"Who else knows about this?"  
  
  
  
"No one, sir. I came straight to you as soon as I intercepted the information."  
  
  
  
Perfect.  
  
  
  
"Is the intel logged somewhere?"  
  
  
  
"Yessir, on server 12. It was a call sent out from the headquarters."  
  
  
  
"Very well."  
  
  
  
I do so hate to do this, but...  
  
  
  
Good. The threat is eliminated. Now all I need is for this mess to be removed from my cabinet...  
  
  
  
"Sir, Mr. Sloane is on line 7."  
  
  
  
Just in time.  
  
  
  
"Thank you, Cindy. Tell Mr. Sloane I'll only be a moment. Oh, and would you kindly have this cleaned up? I do so hate blood stains."  
  
  
  
Server 12...shouldn't be hard to reroute and delete. A click there, a little typing here...and it's all gone. Not a trace. Perfect.  
  
  
  
I love control.  
  
  
  
And now for Mr. Sloane... 


	9. Life is Beautiful

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Thanksgiving vacation with parents can only mean one thing...  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------  
  
It really isn't fair.  
  
  
  
Thanksgiving break means disarming nuclear warheads with my stone cold, distrusting father and my top-security prisoner, perhaps deviously scheming mother.  
  
  
  
And to top it all off? My greatest adversary, a psychotic killer who knows me better than I do and ally to Mr. I-Had-To-End-My-Innocent-Wife's-Pain-By- Poisoning-Her-Wine-For-My-Own-Gain-In-The-Alliance-Of-12-Evil-Monkeys now knows that I am a double agent.  
  
  
  
Life is beautiful.  
  
  
  
Oh, and just thrown in for good measure? I'm in love with him. No, wait, I didn't mean that...  
  
  
  
Great. Vaughn just told me something really important and I was spacing out thinking about Sark.  
  
  
  
"Hold on. I'm really, sorry, could you repeat that?"  
  
  
  
"Syd, are you okay?"  
  
  
  
Perfect. He's concerned and now I'm feeling guilty.  
  
  
  
"I'm fine. What did you say before?"  
  
  
  
"We intercepted a communication. The rebels say they're planning on activating the nukes tomorrow at 1700 hours. Are you sure you're okay? You seem preoccupied."  
  
  
  
Wait. Stop. Rewind. Rebels are activating nuclear warheads and Vaughn's asking me if I'm preoccupied?  
  
  
  
"Wait a second. Activate how? As in deploy? Detonate? Kill people?"  
  
  
  
"Activate, that's the word they used. Now, it might mean delivery, maybe detonation, we don't know. But we have to assume the worst since they got the control codes through SD-6."  
  
  
  
This is not good.  
  
  
  
"I can deactivate the nukes using the control codes I got from SD-6."  
  
  
  
"If you get there in time."  
  
  
  
Way to be glass half-empty.  
  
  
  
I wish Sark was here...Oh man. I did not just think that.  
  
  
  
"...Syd?"  
  
  
  
Dammit, Vaughn's still talking to me?  
  
  
  
"I'm really sorry. It's just...really loud in here. Hard to focus.  
  
  
  
"Syd, what's wrong? I know you're distracted."  
  
  
  
He knows me too well. And he...he loves me too much. God, why...?  
  
  
  
"Nothing. Really. It's just that my parents are at each other's throats and you know, being with my mother..."  
  
  
  
Way to go, Syd. Lie like a dog to the person who cares most about you. To the one who would die for you without the blink of an eye, no questions asked.  
  
  
  
"Just...take it easy. It'll be alright. You'll be back in L.A. in no time and then you can relax and go mini-golfing."  
  
  
  
I have to smile at that. God, he loves me.  
  
  
  
"I gotta go. Thanks, Vaughn."  
  
  
  
"Be careful."  
  
  
  
Thank God. It's not like I don't enjoy talking to him or anything, but I can't right now, not while I'm this confused.  
  
  
  
Sark...No. Don't think about him. Think about Vaughn. Wait, no, don't think about him either.  
  
  
  
The only other thing I was (am?) this confused about is my mother. And I better get back to her before my dad rips her throat out saying she's plotting to murder him with her evil stare or something.  
  
  
  
And then we have six nuclear warheads to disengage.  
  
  
  
Talk about a fun family vacation.  
  
  
  
It would be easier if Sark was here...No, not that way. Just because he's the only other competent agent I know (despite the fact that he's an extremely self-assured, deranged murderer) and he probably knows exactly where the nukes are and what they'll be used for. And if he gave me his word, he wouldn't double-cross us.  
  
  
  
"Miss Bristow. Fancy meeting you here. On vacation with your loving parents?"  
  
  
  
I haven't been shocked like that since...since Danny.  
  
  
  
I really don't want to turn around and face that smirk, which is probably accompanied by a shiny gun. But then...do I have a choice?  
  
  
  
"Sark. What the hell are you doing here?"  
  
  
  
Smirk. But no gun.  
  
  
  
"Why, Miss Bristow, you don't seem very pleased to see me. I'm deeply wounded."  
  
  
  
He's in a plain white robe and turban. Blending in perfectly.  
  
  
  
"Believe me, I'm jumping for joy inside. What do you want?"  
  
  
  
"What makes you think there's something I desire? Well, aside from you, of course..."  
  
  
  
And now with the blatant and extremely unnerving flirting part of the program.  
  
  
  
"Cut the crap, Sark. Why are you here?"  
  
  
  
"Getting right down to business, are we? Well, if you insist on being so dull, I am here to help you."  
  
  
  
The only thing I can say to that is...huh?  
  
  
  
"Well, don't look so confused, dear. You have some nukes to disarm and find out their use. I know what you need to know. End of story. By the way, I must say, that color suits you rather well. You look beautiful even in costume."  
  
  
  
He's here to help me. As if he heard my thoughts and came rushing over here in his private jet. Which, when I think about it, he probably did. I'm not even going to bother asking how he got this intel. And now he's so close to me I can see the pupils of his unbelievably blue eyes...  
  
  
  
Right. Business. Sark is not affecting me in any way. Not at all...  
  
  
  
"Something wrong, Miss Bristow?"  
  
  
  
I hate it when he does that.  
  
  
  
"Sydney."  
  
  
  
He looks puzzled. He tilts his head just a little...it's so cute...Ahem.  
  
  
  
"Pardon me?"  
  
  
  
"Drop the formalities. You and I both know that it doesn't mean anything, so just call me Sydney."  
  
  
  
"Alright, then. Sydney. Is something wrong?"  
  
  
  
"No. And did you become all soul boy? Asking me if something's wrong?"  
  
  
  
  
  
I'm becoming like a petulant five year old. This is what he does to me.  
  
  
  
"I was merely curious. You seem slightly off your game, and we can't have that with nuclear warheads, now can we?"  
  
  
  
Smirk.  
  
  
  
His hand is coming straight for my head. As if he's not close enough already...What is he doing?  
  
  
  
"What do you think you're doing?"  
  
  
  
The jewel. He's fixing it. And brushing a stray strand of hair from my face...and now he's so close I can almost taste him...No. Don't close your eyes. Don't give in. Don't...  
  
  
  
Wow. First time I had enough will to actually obey myself when it comes to Sark.  
  
  
  
"Your jewel."  
  
  
  
"Thanks." Why is my voice sounding all...affected?  
  
  
  
Don't think about Sark or how his hand is still on your head, and now on your cheek. Don't think about how smooth his skin is or how warm he is and how that tiny scent of cologne and a smell uniquely Sark actually smells really, really good...  
  
  
  
Stop. Think about Vaughn. Vaughn. And his watch. The watch that Sark found, and obviously returned, since Vaughn showed it to you in the warehouse before you left.  
  
  
  
How it stopped the day you met...  
  
  
  
How he as good as told you he loved you. Which you already knew.  
  
  
  
And which you were also about to say, but not really...  
  
  
  
You love Vaughn. Because he was always there for you and he'd sacrifice everything for you to be happy...because he has the nicest green eyes in the world...because he was the one who made you feel guilty for not thinking about Danny...because he's dependable...  
  
  
  
But he's not Sark.  
  
  
  
No...Vaughn is everything to you.  
  
  
  
But honestly...Vaughn was everything to you. Past tense.  
  
  
  
And Sark is still there, staring at you, and it's impossible not to look at him...his hand is still on your cheek...and the smirk's gone.  
  
  
  
There's no one but you and him. And now, just for now, you can finally admit to yourself that you feel at least something for him.  
  
  
  
And he's coming closer...I don't think his eyes have ever been this clear, and yet had something there...  
  
  
  
Stop. Vaughn.  
  
  
  
No, don't deny it...It's Sark you crave. It's him you think about when you're relaxing and drinking your Merlot...  
  
  
  
Vaughn went to the back of your mind as soon as Sark came. It's his fire, his excitement that you crave...And now you can feel his breath on your lips...  
  
  
  
"Freeze! Get your hands off of her! Back away slowly. Now."  
  
  
  
Dad. And mom...who has that enigmatic smile on her face.  
  
  
  
The smirk is back.  
  
  
  
"Mr. Bristow. Fancy meeting you here. Ah, Irina. Long time no see, as these Americans say."  
  
  
  
"Dad..."  
  
  
  
Slam. Dad just threw him into a wall...and the people around us are staring.  
  
  
  
"Dad..."  
  
  
  
"What the hell are you doing to my daughter? You have about three seconds to explain before I blow your smirking head off."  
  
  
  
So he sees the smirk too. Maybe I'm not that crazy after all. Wait, who am I kidding, yes I am.  
  
  
  
"Mr. Bristow..."  
  
  
  
"Two seconds."  
  
  
  
He has his gun out. No, wait, he can't kill Sark...  
  
  
  
"Dad!"  
  
  
  
Finally. He looks a little surprised.  
  
  
  
"Sydney? What happened?"  
  
  
  
"Nothing. Sark came up from behind and scared me. Nothing happened."  
  
  
  
Great, I sound like a fourteen-year-old hormone bomb caught with her boyfriend in her room.  
  
  
  
"What the hell is he doing here in the first place?"  
  
  
  
"Mr. Bristow..."  
  
  
  
"You keep your mouth shut. Sydney?"  
  
  
  
Ok, quickly...think of an excuse...if Dad finds out Sark knows we're doubles, he'll kill him. Not that I care. It's just that our covers will be blown, because Sark has some sort of insurance, no doubt.  
  
  
  
He's blinking...wait, I know this, Dad did this...Morse code. Wait what? RD-2? Is he joking? Isn't that from Star Wars...no, that was R2D2...SD-6! Wait, loan? House loan? Oh. Sloane.  
  
  
  
"Sydney?"  
  
  
  
My dad's getting impatient and slightly suspicious.  
  
  
  
"Sloane. He sent Sark here to steal the nukes and activate them."  
  
  
  
It takes all I can not to sigh with relief as soon as my dad takes the gun away from Sark's head.  
  
  
  
"Then why did he come to you?"  
  
  
  
Mom's been silent through all of this. She's just smiling. Making me a little nervous...I think she knows.  
  
  
  
"Mr. Bristow, if I may..."  
  
  
  
Dad looks like he's about to hit Sark again.  
  
  
  
"You have thirty seconds to speak."  
  
  
  
"I believe Sloane is planning a double-cross. That's why I came to Sydney for her help. In exchange for her agreement to assist me on my mission and help convince Sloane not to betray me, I will aid her in finding the nukes and getting through the base. Of course, I had not planned on running into either you or Ms. Derevko."  
  
  
  
Sounds sketchy...just hope dad believes it, which is gonna take a lot of finger-crossing...  
  
  
  
"How did you know Sydney would be here?"  
  
  
  
"My men intercepted an anonymous signal from an unknown source that she would be traveling to Kashmir. I could only guess it was to deactivate the nukes. I assumed it was a private mission directed by you, Mr. Bristow, in order to keep your daughter safe. Much like you did with the call sign Freelancer. However, I did not count on you accompanying her, nor finding Ms. Derevko here, out of hiding."  
  
  
  
He's good. He's really good.  
  
  
  
"Irina Derevko is here as a prisoner. We captured her on the way. It seems she was attempting to go after the nukes, also."  
  
  
  
Ok, dad. That sounds more farfetched than Sark's little theory, but whatever floats your boat.  
  
  
  
"Very well, Mr. Bristow. Now, if I may...The nukes will be closely guarded in a facility that is tighter than the NSA. The place is directed by Gerard Cuvee, and he is extremely paranoid about infiltration, so it will be difficult to penetrate. Once you do get in..."  
  
  
  
He's continues explaining to my not-so-suspicious-anymore-but-still-wary father. My mother...she's looking at him strangely. And then looking at me. She knows.  
  
  
  
Wonderful. We get to have a family reunion in Kashmir trying to infiltrate a building run by my mother's former boss, who's paranoid and psychotic, by the way, and now we're going to be joined by the one person I truly despise. And love.  
  
  
  
And added to that is my guilt in pushing Vaughn to the back of my mind and my confusion between the constant in the my life and the other twisted, insane, illogical thing I have with a remorse-less killer who tortured one of my best friends.  
  
  
  
Life is beautiful. 


	10. Recipe of Darkness

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary:  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------  
  
  
  
She's feeling guilty about her precious handler.  
  
  
  
Interesting.  
  
  
  
I overheard (unintentionally, of course) their little conversation on the sat phone. I mostly heard Sydney's side, but it was easy to guess what Officer Pretty was saying.  
  
  
  
She seemed a bit preoccupied. When I walked behind her and scared the living wits out of her...I must admit, it was rather entertaining to see her jump like that.  
  
  
  
And that's when we both took a ride on a downward spiral. Her being that close...her skin so smooth and her heart pumping...No. I must properly chastise myself for allowing myself to go that far. And with her parents there, also.  
  
  
  
She sounded like a fourteen-year-old hormone bomb caught with her boyfriend in her room. Quite amusing.  
  
  
  
Nonetheless, the mission itself was largely successful, although Cuvee now seems to think I double-crossed him. Which I did, of course, but Mr. Monkey the Sloane needs not know that.  
  
  
  
The Rambaldi flower is now in possession of the CIA. I would have taken it for myself to study; however, Jack Bristow didn't seem too pleased with my guest appearance.  
  
  
  
It is a good thing he does not know about my knowledge of his and Sydney's statuses as double agents.  
  
  
  
Although, my explanation did - to coin a popular America term - suck. It really blew. I was rather surprised that an experienced agent such as Mr. Bristow actually believed that. He must have been almost as preoccupied as Sydney, with Irina being there and all.  
  
  
  
I did tell him half the truth. The monkey did send me here to retrieve the nukes to activate. Except I played him in such a way that he reconsidered and informed me that I would not, in fact go to Kashmir. He sent a group of incompetent mercenaries to deal with the other group of...incompetent mercenaries. I killed both of them, of course. I could not have them reporting me or getting in the way of my plans with the Bristows.  
  
  
  
Sloane doesn't have to know that, however.  
  
  
  
Unfortunately, it seems someone's tipped him off...  
  
  
  
"Mr. Sark."  
  
  
  
"Yes?"  
  
  
  
My back seems to have found its way into the wall.  
  
  
  
"Mr. Sloane requests your presence."  
  
  
  
The monkey's lackeys are actually impudent enough to put their hands on me and drag me down to the famous conversation room. However, they move me past that room into a different, better lit room.  
  
  
  
What the hell...  
  
  
  
"What is this? We have an arrangement!"  
  
  
  
Sloane dares to have his back turned to me. If he were not such an important tool in my work, I would rip his spine right out of it. Guns can be rather boring at times.  
  
  
  
"Yes. One you've failed to live up to."  
  
  
  
He's stupid enough to be superior and arrogant with me. Oh, he'll get his, I will make certain of that...  
  
  
  
"Our operation in Kashmir was a waste of SD-6 resources. We acquired nothing."  
  
  
  
The damn agents put a bloody glass ball in my mouth. Suddenly, I know what it is they're doing. Politician torture.  
  
  
  
Monkey's turning around.  
  
  
  
"Now, if you recall, I sent a mercenary team in your stead. However, I have received reports of your presence in Kashmir, which leads me to believe you had some involvement in the mission. So, my question is - have you betrayed me? Or are you simply incompetent?"  
  
  
  
His black, pupil-less eyes are glittering.  
  
  
  
"This interrogation technique was developed by the Khmer Rouge. Minimal bruising on political prisoners when they are allowing them to be photographed. You see, if I pull this a little harder, the glass will break. And I do not want that. So tell me, do you think that we were unlucky on our first venture together or do you have another plan that you want to tell me about?"  
  
  
  
I was right. Politician torture. Alright, let me think of something...  
  
  
  
"Why were you in Kashmir?"  
  
  
  
Patience, old man. He signals to white coat torture guy to let me spit out that intrusive glass ball. Very well, then, here goes...  
  
  
  
"I was merely worried that the mercenary team you sent out would be...incompetent, if I may. As you can see, my instincts were correct, as they were killed a short while after they set foot in Kashmir. So I took it upon myself to continue the mission with my own men. I didn't betray you. We agreed to combine our efforts. I swear to you, that's still my intent!"  
  
  
  
The recipe for getting out of unwanted torture: concoct several convincing lies based on the truth, tell them something they want to here, and sprinkle with a mix of indignation, fear, and desperation.  
  
  
  
"Then tell me what went wrong in Kashmir."  
  
  
  
"The Indian western command carried out an air strike on the PRF prison. The Rambaldi artifact was destroyed. My contact in the region, Gerard Cuvee, mistakenly believes I tipped the Indian authorities off. With all due respect sir, could the leak have come from this office?"  
  
  
  
Add in a seemingly reluctant but good suspicion of his own people, and Bam! as that irritating Puerto Rican chef on the American television would say. And don't ask me how I know that.  
  
  
  
Monkey looks suspicious. I wonder if monkeys can get suspicious...Sometimes I question whether this spy crap is getting to my head.  
  
  
  
"I will release you only with the warning that another failure will not be tolerated so gently. Understood?"  
  
  
  
The last time he asked me that was with a glass of my favorite wine dangling in his grimy hand.  
  
  
  
"Understood."  
  
  
  
"Very well. Release him."  
  
  
  
I briefly consider snapping his neck...But no. Maybe next week.  
  
  
  
Right now I have slightly more pressing matters to turn to...such as Miss Bristow. I believe it is time we had a little chat about Kashmir...strictly business of course. Nothing to do with our close proximity...  
  
  
  
I almost kissed her. Right after her distracted but very guilty chat with her CIA contact. I wonder what she is so troubled about...  
  
  
  
But when I do think about it, I can only draw one conclusion...No. It cannot be. There is no logical way, no matter how I put it or how cocky I feel.  
  
  
  
It cannot be me.  
  
  
  
Can it? 


	11. Just Smile

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Just smile and nod.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
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"Waiting for the time when I can finally say That this has all been wonderful but now I'm on my way When I think it's time to leave it all behind I try to find a way to but there's nothing I can say to make it stop..." ~Phish, "Down With Disease"  
  
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I need to get out of this life.  
  
  
  
Now.  
  
  
  
This spy crap is really getting to me...I don't know how much more of this I can take before making a major mistake. Well, besides the ones I've already made.  
  
  
  
Especially the one that includes a certain Mr. Sark.  
  
  
  
I still don't know his first name, dammit.  
  
  
  
And why did he come to Kashmir, anyway? It wasn't for his personal gain so why the hell would he help me?  
  
  
  
God save us all. The mission was a success at least. And my parents actually didn't try to rip each other's throats out and yet be all couple-y (if that's a word) at the same time. The toaster...sometimes they're just so...weird. If they weren't my parents and have an "eww" factor, I'd say there was a helluva lot of UST going on there.  
  
  
  
I would have kicked Cuvee's Russian ass if my parents hadn't done it first. Again with the working together...ugh, I need a drink. This is just too confusing. A Petreuse might help...and no, not because Sark likes it. Really. Truly. Actually...I feel a little daring. A margarita will do.  
  
  
  
I gotta say, though, I got just the slightest gratification in watching him being smacked upside the head by Cuvee. I think it was more of a joking gesture, but still. That boy needed some sense knocked into him...although I'm not sure that was the purpose.  
  
  
  
Refreshing. Just the thing for these hot guys, uh, days. Honestly, winter in L.A. shouldn't be this warm. Although it is cooling down a bit. Unlike Kashmir...  
  
  
  
It's so strange to think of my mother as a prisoner. With the CIA, it's different...but when she told us she was a prisoner in that facility...I almost just smacked my dad and myself right there. Of course Sark wasn't surprised. He just...smirked away.  
  
  
  
And the whole interrogation set-up...God, that was painful. When my mother and Sark walked in that door with Cuvee...oh man. I don't think I've ever been so relieved as when my father unlocked my cell.  
  
  
  
Then this morning...my mother cried. She told me she was foolish to think that any idealogy could come before her daughter...and we hugged.  
  
  
  
Fucking U.S. Marshals...I was about to just take them out. Screw protocol. But I don't think my dad would be too happy about that...  
  
  
  
"Syd? What are you doing home?"  
  
  
  
Wow, I didn't even hear Francie come in. My spy skills could use a little honing.  
  
  
  
"Hey! I didn't even hear you come in!" Alright, do the whole roommate best friend thing. Give her a big smile and a hug.  
  
  
  
"Yeah, my boss finally gave me a day off. I figured I'd just stay home and relax."  
  
  
  
Not entirely a lie. I'm supposed to be preparing for a mission with Sark of all people. We were supposed to leave tonight but the transport was delayed until tomorrow afternoon, so I have some time to relax and ready myself for France with the person I lov-er, hate the most.  
  
  
  
"That's great! It's about time that damn bank gave you some time of your own. Ooh, what are you drinking? Margarita?"  
  
  
  
Just smile and nod.  
  
  
  
"No Merlot today?"  
  
  
  
"Nah. I felt like drinking something different."  
  
  
  
And I needed something to cool me off...ahem. Anyway.  
  
  
  
"So how's the restaurant going?"  
  
  
  
"Pretty good. I just left my assistant in charge because I totally just needed a break. So I told her to just manage things and close up at night 'cuz I am definitely not going back there tonight."  
  
  
  
Recipe to keep inquisitive roommate and best friend happy: Prepare good excuses for Sloane's excessive paging and mysterious bruises. Mix in supportive comments about said best friend's career - currently restaurant managing - and sprinkle with a large quantity of bright (albeit sometimes fake) smiles and cheerful laughing. Serve convincingly with sympathetic looks when needed and a glass of wine, preferably Merlot. Serves two, sometimes three when so desired.  
  
  
  
I swear to God I'm crazy. I just thought up a recipe to keep my best friend happy. Unbelievable. I bet Sark isn't this deranged...well not this way anyway. In a psychotic, shooting-people-right-between-the-eyes- and-not-flinching-way, yes. But not like this. And why, may I ask to anyone who's listening that's not the CIA or SD-6 or my father or Vaughn, am I thinking about him again?  
  
  
  
It's people like him that make people like me need medication.  
  
  
  
"Uh, Syd?"  
  
  
  
Damn. I spaced out again. Oh, wait, that was Will. I guess he's home. And now they're both looking at me like I'm a little crazy, which, when I think about it, I am. Without the little.  
  
  
  
"Yeah, sorry, I guess I just spaced. Will, hey, watsup?"  
  
  
  
"Nothing. I just got back from a little run. How's work?"  
  
  
  
Is that a trick question?  
  
  
  
"Good. Tiring, but good. I have the day off, we should all go out!"  
  
  
  
Roommate appeased.  
  
  
  
"Yeah, definitely, it's been ages since you had some free time. Will, are you free?"  
  
  
  
"Yeah, I'm good. Let's go out for dinner and maybe have a drink afterwards."  
  
  
  
Good. Plans made. Now leave me alone so I can drink and be alone with my thoughts. No, on second thought, don't. I'll just end up thinking very bad ones.  
  
  
  
"Syd, you alright?"  
  
  
  
Great, again with the spacing. At least Francie went to do something or other.  
  
  
  
"Yeah, Will, I'm fine. Just a little tired."  
  
  
  
"How is work, really?"  
  
  
  
Sark...  
  
  
  
"It's alright. My mission got rescheduled for tomorrow afternoon...I'm going to Paris. With Sark."  
  
  
  
Eyes widening. Pulse quickening. Will is definitely not a happy drug addict.  
  
  
  
"Sark? The blonde bastard?"  
  
  
  
And a hot one at that...  
  
  
  
"The one and the same."  
  
  
  
"Oh man. I'm not gonna say anything, but just be careful."  
  
  
  
"I will. Thanks, Will."  
  
  
  
Friendly - repeat, friendly - kiss on the cheek and I will take my leave.  
  
  
  
"Anyway, I'm gonna catch up on my reading a bit. I'll see you tonight."  
  
  
  
"Ok. Go get some rest."  
  
  
  
I just might have that glass of Merlot now. I'm gonna need it...  
  
  
  
The phone's ringing. Shit. What are the chances it's someone calling for some pizza?  
  
  
  
"Hello?"  
  
  
  
"Joey's Pizza?"  
  
  
  
"Sorry, wrong number."  
  
  
  
I knew it. Great, now I get to feel really guilty about Vaughn as well as obsess over a certain, cocky Brit and then rush back here to appease the roommate and the drug addict. Well, that's not really fair to Francie and Will, but I don't think I can be held accountable as I've lost all of my sanity. Ok, just finish your glass of wine and get the car keys. I wonder if I'm drunk...  
  
  
  
I obviously am, or I'm just distracted, because I think I'm going in the opposite direction. Whatever, it'll just shake whoever's trying to tail me this time.  
  
  
  
Oh, fun, another tail. Alright, see if you can follow me through an illegal U-turn on the freeway and a loopy drive into the local road...being drunk has its uses sometimes.  
  
  
  
Unless your tail is a certain blonde who's a born professional in assassination and espionage.  
  
  
  
I need another Merlot. Or some Jack Daniels. Strange, because I'm not one to depend on alcohol...Ugh, this is what he's done to me.  
  
  
  
Think. Hard. Meeting in a typical, abandoned alley with your worst (and most charming...er, harming) enemy is not a good idea.  
  
  
  
But I don't have a choice, do I?  
  
  
  
"Miss Bristow. Forgive me, but I do not think drunk driving is the answer to your problems."  
  
  
  
"Cut the crap, Sark. What do you want now?"  
  
  
  
Perfect. I asked the question of doom yet again.  
  
  
  
"Interesting choice of words, Sydney. What do I want..."  
  
  
  
Smirk. God, I hate that thing.  
  
  
  
"You know what I mean. Now answer my question or get out of my way."  
  
  
  
"Very well. I merely wanted to go over some of the specs of our mission before we went our separate ways."  
  
  
  
Oh, Lordy.  
  
  
  
"And you had to do this now of all times?"  
  
  
  
Why do I sense some trouble ahead?  
  
  
  
"Well, it seemed the most logical time as you are going to get your counter mission from Captain Pretty in that depressing warehouse. Although it is rather secluded...should I ask what goes on in there?"  
  
  
  
Damn you, Sark.  
  
  
  
"The only reason I am refraining from kicking every square inch of your ass is that we have a mission to go on and I need a partner who is in fighting form. Although I wouldn't mind going alone without a constant pebble in my shoe."  
  
  
  
Looks like Snarky!Sydney is back.  
  
  
  
"Ouch. That was rather harsh. Perhaps because I am cutting into your precious time with the non-protocol handler."  
  
  
  
"Did you come here just to get on my nerves or do you have an actual purpose for trying to run me off the road?"  
  
  
  
Please, let's just get on with it. And no, not that way.  
  
  
  
"Alright then, we will get straight down to business. I need to know what kind of counter mission the CIA is planning."  
  
  
  
"Why, so you can stop me?"  
  
  
  
"No, so I can help you. Contrary to your belief, I do not wish to aid SD- 6. My sole purpose with Sloane is to use him for my own purposes, not to get in the way of the CIA."  
  
  
  
Right. Ok. I really believe that.  
  
  
  
"So, what, you're a white hat now?"  
  
  
  
Smirk.  
  
  
  
"Not exactly. I do have a higher plan-"  
  
  
  
"Who do you think you are? God?"  
  
  
  
"Are you going to let me finish or will you be snarking at me all evening? Because if so, your lover boy may be waiting quite a long time."  
  
  
  
Ok, just give him a withering glare and shut up so you can go see Vaughn. Though this isn't half-bad...no. Concentrate.  
  
  
  
"As I was saying, my work often requires me to do things that are against CIA protocol. That does not, however, entail that I go directly against the United States government for the sole purpose of doing so. Sometimes I feel a desire to teach some of those insolent bastards a lesson, but not professionally."  
  
  
  
I can't help but smile a little. And apparently he saw that because he's smirking again.  
  
  
  
"Alright. I'm not exactly sure what my counter mission is as I haven't received it yet, due to a slight technical problem involving an evil mercenary tailing me, but I'm pretty sure it'll be something along the lines of some device to shut down the Echelon server and make it seem like Cuvee installed a fail-safe. Basically, it's just making sure that SD-6 doesn't - under any circumstances - access Echelon."  
  
  
  
"No disc switching of any sort this time?"  
  
  
  
"No."  
  
  
  
"Good. Since we are traveling separately, we should meet at around four o'clock at the Arc De Triumph. Do try not to be late."  
  
  
  
"You want us to just meet in the middle of traffic? That's real inconspicuous."  
  
  
  
"I will be in a police car."  
  
  
  
Right, 'cuz that'll work.  
  
  
  
"Even better. I'll just climb into a police car without arousing any suspicions."  
  
  
  
"Try to look lost or desolate, then. I'll have the equipment in the trunk so I'll let you off about a block away from the setup point."  
  
  
  
"Fine."  
  
  
  
"How are Irina and Jack? They seemed to get along well when they were bashing Cuvee's head in."  
  
  
  
Smirk. And another smile from me...I really need to focus here. Compartmentalize.  
  
  
  
"They're doing okay. I mean, it's just so weird. The life itself is bad enough, having to lie and kick ass and flirt and fight my way out of life- threatening situations with evil people who lick my face. But after a lifetime of thinking my mother was a teacher and died in a car accident and an estranged father who was too involved in selling airplane parts to tell me happy birthday, it's just too..."  
  
  
  
"Bewildering?"  
  
  
  
His eyes are so blue...oh God. Of all people, why him? Ok, breathe. Just breathe. I can't do this anymore...I can just feel myself snapping.  
  
  
  
"Yeah. I mean, finding out the truth about my dad and SD-6, not to mention my fiancée being murdered, was overwhelming enough, and then suddenly I find out that my mother, my beautiful, good-hearted, teacher mother who was loved by my father, was actually a KGB agent who betrayed us all. Oh, oh, and to add to that Greek tragedy? She killed Vaughn's father. Then, on some random, albeit covert, mission in Taipei, Vaughn is almost killed and I'm chained to a chair and then my mother walks in. And shoots me! Then soon after that, she turns herself into the CIA, saying she wants to cooperate. And that she doesn't have an evil plan, unlike the time she seduced my father in order to steal top-secret governmental secrets from him. Then she actually helps out, saves Vaughn's and my life with no strings attached, and then explains to me that she shot me in order to save my life. Then we go on this family vacation to India to steal nuclear warheads that are used to uncover a 600-year-old flower. And my parents are still "technically married", or so says my dad to my mom after my mom told my dad. And I know there was something wrong with that sentence, but I really don't care right now. And then this morning? My mother apologizes for betraying us and as good as says that I'm the most important thing to her. And we hug! And I'm going to see Vaughn in a secluded warehouse, which I have to take about 14 wrong turns to get to so that SD-6 can't tie us together. And once I get there? We aren't even supposed to be friends according to that damn CIA protocol. Not that we follow it, but still. It is so damn frustrating to be with someone and not be able to look at them no matter how much you want to, because if you do, you'll both die. And now I'm really confused with you being all...nice...and why am I still talking to you?"  
  
  
  
Holy shit. The whole emotional outburst thing just wasn't...oh my God.  
  
  
  
"Syd..."  
  
  
  
Of all times for me to be Teary!Sydney, it has to be now in front of my greatest adversary.  
  
  
  
Perfect.  
  
  
  
He's putting his arms around me...I just need...just for a moment, something to hold on to. Just for now. Not ever again. Just need to get it all out, it's nothing personal...He's so...comfortable.  
  
  
  
"You smell good."  
  
  
  
"I would expect nothing less as this cologne was upwards of forty dollars. Those Italians know how to make money."  
  
  
  
Laughing feels good. I haven't really laughed in...a long time. God, I don't want to let go. I just wanna stay here forever...and I cannot believe I am thinking this. No, I have to get to the warehouse. It's been 45 minutes...Vaughn's probably worried. Pull away, Syd, just pull away. It shouldn't be this hard...Ok. Deep breath and then you gotta go.  
  
  
  
"I should go. Vaughn's waiting."  
  
  
  
"Ah, yes. Wouldn't want to keep your handler waiting."  
  
  
  
Just for a second, he had an expression other than that trademark smirk...like regret? Discomfort? Fear? No, I'm hallucinating. Next time, I gotta remember not to add an extra shot of tequila in my already potent margarita and then have a glass of wine after that when I'm going to see Vaughn. Never know who I'll be intercepted by. Although at the time, I wasn't thinking of going out at all.  
  
  
  
"I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
  
  
"I can hardly wait. Do make sure your counter mission isn't too complicated."  
  
  
  
He just gets into his shiny Mercedes and drives away without another look back. I really need to get a grip on myself when he's around...shit. It's been 50 minutes since the Joey's Pizza call. I should contact Vaughn.  
  
  
  
"Vaughn here."  
  
  
  
"Vaughn, it's me. I'm on my way, but traffics a little heavy so it'll take me a couple minutes."  
  
  
  
"Syd, it's been almost an hour. What happened? Did something go wrong?"  
  
  
  
His voice is so full of concern...for me. Always for me. God...  
  
  
  
"No, I just got delayed by something. Nothing serious."  
  
  
  
Just extremely odd. Definitely unreal...since when do mortal enemies feel tingles around each other and melt into the other's arms? Well, from my side, anyway.  
  
  
  
"I'll be there in five minutes." Click.  
  
  
  
Guilty is definitely not my favorite thing to be. Especially when it concerns gorgeous green-eyed handlers (against protocol) and unbelievably hot assassins (against all the laws of nature and reason).  
  
  
  
Alright. Routine. Park three blocks away facing the opposite direction and walk in completely irrational circles to the warehouse.  
  
  
  
"Hey. I'm so sorry, there was just a little crisis. Nothing life or cover threatening."  
  
  
  
He looks so relieved. And really good in that new suit.  
  
  
  
"It's okay. Are you sure you're alright?"  
  
  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine."  
  
  
  
"Were you crying?"  
  
  
  
Dammit. Well, don't forget he is agent-trained. Just smile and lie.  
  
  
  
"No, I just yawned. I'm just so tired lately."  
  
  
  
"Oh. Well, you should get some rest, I'll make this quick."  
  
  
  
Just smile again.  
  
  
  
"So Sloane has no idea you sabotaged the operation in Kashmir?"  
  
  
  
Not only that, he also has no idea Sark was there. Neither does Vaughn, and he doesn't need to.  
  
  
  
"If he did, we wouldn't be having this conversation."  
  
  
  
"Since Sark failed to deliver on his promise with Sloane, their partnership may not last for long."  
  
  
  
Wait, how does Vaughn know about that? Right, Sloane was originally planning on sending Sark. The CIA is supposed to be intelligent...yeah, right. And Sloane's nothing but a harmless, twinkling grandfather.  
  
  
  
"Actually, Sloane didn't send Sark. He changed his mind at the last minute and instead sent in a mercenary team to retrieve the artifact. They were all killed though. So unfortunately, it isn't over yet. Sloane is sending me to Paris with Sark tonight."  
  
  
  
"Why?"  
  
  
  
"To retrieve the Echelon server. He wants possession of it. Cuvee thinks Sark betrayed him for some reason, so he's having it transported tomorrow afternoon. We're going to intercept it and bring it back to Sloane. Or we're supposed to, anyway."  
  
  
  
Please, please, just give me my counter mission so I can go home.  
  
  
  
"If Sloane gets a hold of that terminal, well, the Alliance will be able to eavesdrop on corporations, law enforcement, political campaigns... the potential for blackmail and insider trading would be unlimited."  
  
  
  
Ok, time to get straight to the point.  
  
  
  
"What's my counter mission?"  
  
  
  
"I'll have technical services provide you with a secure deletion program. You'll upload it onto the Echelon terminal. When SD-6 turns it on, it'll wipe the hard drive clean."  
  
  
  
The CIA is just too freaking predicable sometimes.  
  
  
  
"Sloane will think Cuvee installed a fail-safe to prevent..."  
  
  
  
"Unauthorized access."  
  
  
  
Jinx. This is too confusing. I just need to...get out of here.  
  
  
  
He has such a nice smile...Oh geez. I need to take a vacation. Preferably a permanent one, at least from this spy crap.  
  
  
  
"Oh, by the way, I'm meeting with Will tomorrow to help him prep for his psych evaluation."  
  
  
  
How sweet. I hope Will does well.  
  
  
  
"Thank you. And I like it."  
  
  
  
"What?"  
  
  
  
"Your new suit."  
  
  
  
"Oh. It's not new. I just... don't wear it that often. I came from a funeral. Alice's father died."  
  
  
  
So, not new then. For Alice. She's...nice. I mean, it's not her fault she looks like Vaughn's mother...okay. Subtley and pettily insulting your forbidden love's girlfriend is real mature. I definitely need a break. How many different ways can I say that? Ok, just be calm. Be Supportive!Sydney.  
  
  
  
"I'm sorry. How is she doing?"  
  
  
  
"Okay. Well, not really, but she'll be fine."  
  
  
  
"Let me know if you need anything."  
  
  
  
I hate this. I really do.  
  
  
  
"I should get back. Francie, Will, and I are going out for the first time in a while."  
  
  
  
"That sounds nice. How is Francie? She's running a restaurant now, isn't she?"  
  
  
  
How does he know that? No, wait, he's CIA. Stupid question.  
  
  
  
"Yeah."  
  
  
  
"How's that going?"  
  
  
  
"Really well. I mean, it's so chaotic, but she seems to be having a lot of fun. Although now that Will knows about all this spy stuff, we can't tell her anything. I think she knows we're keeping something from her, but there's nothing I can do."  
  
  
  
Great. I was really looking forward to another heart-to-heart in a warehouse about deceiving my loved ones.  
  
  
  
"It'll be alright. Trust me, things will get better sometime, if not now."  
  
  
  
He's being all reassuring sweet guy and I just want to smack him. It's taking all of my restraint not to just snap all over again, and the alcohol is not helping at all. If he wants to be all Mary Poppins about it, then fine. Just smile.  
  
  
  
"Thanks. I'll call you when I get back."  
  
  
  
"Ok. Be careful. And have a great time tonight."  
  
  
  
Another smile and nod. Thank God, now I can go and relax and maybe have another drink.  
  
  
  
"Uh, Syd?"  
  
  
  
Damn. Did he forget something?  
  
  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
  
  
"Is there something going on? It's just...you seem really preoccupied lately."  
  
  
  
Alright already with Perceptive!Vaughn. I feel angry enough already for not being in love with him anymore, even though it was still hell when I did. And I'm not making sense again. Just smile and lie. Again.  
  
  
  
"No, nothing. I'm just really tired lately. I don't know, maybe I have a virus or something."  
  
  
  
He's not convinced. Well, even though he is part of the not-so-intelligent CIA, he's smart.  
  
  
  
"Honestly. I'm fine."  
  
  
  
"Okay. Take care of yourself. And...if you ever need anything, you know how to reach me. You can tell me anything."  
  
  
  
Smile.  
  
  
  
"Thanks."  
  
  
  
Seriously, just let me go. Please.  
  
  
  
Finally. Well then. Time for the best friend and the ex-reporter. At least I have a five (well, ten to fifteen counting shaking off tails) minute drive alone with my thoughts.  
  
  
  
Sark...I can't think about that now. It's too...bewildering, as he so aptly put it. Almost like he's listening to my thoughts, which I wouldn't be too surprised at considering he listens to everything else.  
  
  
  
"Guys, I'm home."  
  
  
  
Silence.  
  
  
  
Ok, dead silence definitely not a good sign. Something doesn't feel right here.  
  
  
  
Ok, breathe. Just breathe. If I wasn't a world-class spy with eight years of experience, I'd say nothing was wrong, but who am I kidding?  
  
  
  
Motherfuc- I hate it when people grab me from behind in a dark room and pull me aside.  
  
  
  
"Miss Bristow."  
  
  
  
What the-  
  
  
  
Ow. I think someone just hit my head.  
  
  
  
Just smile and nod, just smile and nod, just smile and...nod...into...black space...  
  
  
  
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A/N: A little shout-out to the Vartan Hos and the line I stole from the bartender of Sark on the Beach. All credit for any Exclamation!Words and the bartender's note goes to the Vartan Hos. So how is it so far? Should I continue? I know, I'm evil, just leaving it like that...but lots of reviews = faster chapters. Muahahaha...now, you have a choice. Either click the beautiful, painless purple button on the bottom left and type...or face the evil dentist! ;-) 


	12. The Things I Do

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: The things he does...  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------  
  
  
  
Bloody hell.  
  
  
  
I held her in my arms. I comforted her. I became her crying shoulder.  
  
  
  
That's enough to go get roaring drunk.  
  
  
  
But of course, things just don't go my way. Sloane just feels the need to ruin my evening.  
  
  
  
God, I can still feel her. I can smell her hair, feel how warm she was. I can feel her tears on my $7,500 black Armani suit. Beige is more my color, but monkey boy prefers crisp, black business suits, preferably expensive. Another case of the irritating Lieutenant Banana.  
  
  
  
What does he want now?  
  
  
  
"Mr. Sark."  
  
  
  
"Mr. Sloane. I have just briefed Sydney on the specs of our mission tomorrow."  
  
  
  
"Very well. But she won't be accompanying you on this mission."  
  
  
  
What is he trying to pull here?  
  
  
  
"Pardon me?  
  
  
  
"I've just reviewed various tapes from security section. There are several instances in which she is in the same area as this man here, identified as Michael Vaughn."  
  
  
  
Shit.  
  
  
  
"They never face each other, but they seem to be speaking with each other."  
  
  
  
"Are you implying that Agent Bristow may be a double agent?"  
  
  
  
The bastard looks pleased with himself.  
  
  
  
"Yes. I have instructed security section to send a team in twenty minutes to kill her two friends. Miss Bristow is to be brought in alive for interrogation, and then most likely eliminated."  
  
  
  
Motherfucker. Think, dammit!  
  
  
  
"With all due respect sir, and I assure you I am not in any way defending Agent Bristow, but could there be reasonable doubt on this matter? Your surveillance could be mistaken, or there could be a logical explanation. There is nothing against agents meeting with casual acquaintances, if I'm not mistaken. Although the not facing each other part does throw me off a bit."  
  
  
  
He looks as if he hadn't thought of that. Mr. Monkey Brains here needs to reconsider his priorities.  
  
  
  
"I had a background check done on Michael Vaughn. It seems that he is a state worker whose father was a CIA agent, William Vaughn. Mr. Vaughn Sr. was murdered by Irina Derevko."  
  
  
  
Shitty American intelligence sometimes has its uses. Still, it is rather unbelievable that the Alliance can't break through a simple CIA cover.  
  
  
  
"Then, no disrespect meant, but perhaps Agent Bristow is not, in fact, betraying us. It could be that she sought out Michael Vaughn out of compassion to apologize for Irina's doings. After all, Agent Bristow is an emotional woman and it fits her profile."  
  
  
  
Why am I covering for her? Besides the fact that I love her...  
  
  
  
"That could also be the case. However, Michael Vaughn's biography could easily be a cover for his affiliation with the CIA."  
  
  
  
"Then I propose this: I will closely monitor Agent Bristow's movements. I could surely do better than your security section, and it would be harder for her to hide from me."  
  
  
  
He looks like he's thinking. Well, there's a first for everything as the expression goes.  
  
  
  
"As much as a subtle approach is favorable, she may be a great risk to our operation and must be dealt with as well as her two friends, who are scheduled to die in several minutes."  
  
  
  
Fuck.  
  
  
  
"Well, my proposal still stands. Whatever damage she may have done can be undone and her friends can always be spared. However, it is your call, Arvin."  
  
  
  
He looks deep in thought again. Careful he doesn't drown.  
  
  
  
"Her reaction to the death of her friends may give her away. That will go as planned. However, she will accompany you tomorrow. Keep a very close eye on her at all times."  
  
  
  
Well then, begin planning. Great, I get to be a white hat and save the clueless best friend and puppy dog reporter.  
  
  
  
"Yes, sir. What about Jack Bristow and this Michael Vaughn?"  
  
  
  
Logically, I have to say it. Not that I want to arouse suspicion, but when one Bristow is concerned...  
  
  
  
"He has been with me too long to betray me. Sydney is under a lot of pressure, and if she is indeed a double for the real CIA or some other organization, it may be her cracking and not entirely a sign of her morality if she knows the truth, although it could be that as well. At the moment, Jack is under investigation by Ariana Kane in order to clear his name and begin a real search on a perpetrator who may be attempting to overthrow me. In the meantime, I assure you, he is not a suspect. Mr. Vaughn is to be brought here for intensive interrogation."  
  
  
  
Even better. Now I get to save Captain Pretty.  
  
  
  
"If Mr. Vaughn is, indeed, a CIA agent, he will no doubt be able to evade you. I advise that we kill him instead. Agent Bristow will no doubt react to that as well."  
  
  
  
"Yes, yes. Good idea, Sark."  
  
  
  
"Thank you. I can take care of that if you wish."  
  
  
  
"Ask him some questions before you kill him."  
  
  
  
Ask questions. Funny.  
  
  
  
"Why are you threatened about Ms. Bristow now? You've surely seen the tapes before today."  
  
  
  
"Actually, I have. However, I was still thinking what to do. You see, Agent Bristow is like a daughter to me. I have tried to think of any possible way to let her go this time. But I believe she has damaged my operation long enough. You will kill Vaughn and make sure my team brings Bristow to me. Understood?"  
  
  
  
"Yes sir. Is that all?"  
  
  
  
"Yes. You are dismissed. Concentrate on tomorrow's mission."  
  
  
  
A nod and a simple walk away will do.  
  
  
  
Alright, now time for some action. A call here, threat there...this should be easy. As long as I have a bug killer in my car, the pesky SD-6 security shouldn't be a problem.  
  
  
  
"It's Sark. Have the Geneva house ready and guarded. Now. Make sure there are no bugs or any infiltration, and have a team and backup in the mirror and stock up on supplies and fitting clothes and other such necessities. Also, book two flights leaving in half an hour to Geneva and have an armed escort ready. Book the tickets under Patrice LaFont and Diana Osmond. Put them under the pretense of marriage. Make sure you have a passport, birth certificate, licenses, everything perfectly done. Photos you need to alter can be found in the profile marked K.J. Have officers ready with the tickets and identification at the gate. Be sure that both aliases guarded at all times and completely untraceable to their former identities."  
  
  
  
"Yes sir, I'll do those right away."  
  
  
  
"Good." Click. And now for more ordering and string-pulling...  
  
  
  
"It's Sark. Send an unidentifiable team and kill the security team sent out from SD-6. No, don't bullshit me, you know which team I'm talking about because I know you intercepted a transmission. This cannot - under any circumstances - be traced back to me. Cover it as an attempt by Russian intelligence to coerce Bristow. Don't attempt to protest, I gave you an order. You know, your precious infant daughter would make a great gift to a close friend of mine. He enjoys mounting his prey on the walls and a little taxidermy in his free time...especially with such unique creatures like humans. Thank you, and I want it done now. Quickly." Click.  
  
  
  
Threats can be so rewarding sometimes.  
  
  
  
"It's Sark. I need you to secure jobs for a Patrice LaFont and a Diana Osmond near the Geneva house. Put LaFont in something to do with analytical research, but make sure it isn't anything remotely close to reporting. He needs to be kept away from anything to do with journalism. Osmond should be in some sort of culinary career or interior designing. Do this right away and I will cut your debt by forty percent."  
  
  
  
"Seventy."  
  
  
  
"Fifty-five."  
  
  
  
"Done. I'll have that ready in an instant."  
  
  
  
"Good." Click.  
  
  
  
The things I do for this woman.  
  
  
  
Ok, now for the fun part.  
  
  
  
Simple routine - park at least four blocks away and circle to Sydney's residence. Quite a nice setup, although not nearly as lavish as my places.  
  
  
  
Knock on the door.  
  
  
  
"Can I help you?"  
  
  
  
Francie.  
  
  
  
"Ms. Calfo. May I come in?"  
  
  
  
"If you're selling something, I'm not interested."  
  
  
  
The puppy dog is coming...soon it will be time for the disbelieving hysterics.  
  
  
  
"Francie? Who is i-"  
  
  
  
Muffle your scream, Mr. Tippin. Inquisitive neighbors may come knocking. Or I can muffle your scream myself.  
  
  
  
"Who the hell are you? Will? Who is he? Why are you screaming?"  
  
  
  
"I can explain to you both my presence, Ms. Calfo, if you will give me a chance to talk."  
  
  
  
"You think I'm just going to let you in? After Taipei? Sydney may be pretending to work with yo-"  
  
  
  
The average intelligence level of people nowadays does leave something to be desired.  
  
  
  
"I am here to save your life. Believe me or not, it's safer inside the house where there aren't peering eyes and perking ears. There's a bug killer in the lamp so that'll do."  
  
  
  
"Huh?"  
  
  
  
Poor girl looks confused.  
  
  
  
"How did you know about that?"  
  
  
  
"Wait, wha-"  
  
  
  
"It is my business to know these things, Mr. Tippin. I have only five minutes and then you must be off, so I suggest you check your quivering fear and disbelief at the door and just listen."  
  
  
  
"Hold it, both of you. What the hell is going on here?!"  
  
  
  
"As I have said numerous times, I will explain inside. Now please shut the door, Ms. Calfo."  
  
  
  
They're too bewildered not to listen.  
  
  
  
"Ok, this is how it is. Ms. Calfo, there are many things you will not understand at the moment. After a full debriefing at your destination, you will be more informed, albeit shocked. A team was sent out several minutes ago to eliminate you both. Sydney is suspected to be a double agent after some very good tailing and surveillance. Several previously unknown tapes have linked her and Michael Vaughn together, arousing much suspicion. The security team sent to kill you has been taken care of, but you are no longer safe here. You have now eight minutes to get on a flight to Geneva. A man will approach you at the gate with your new identification and boarding tickets. Mr. Tippin, you are using a former alias, Patrice LaFont. Ms. Calfo, you are Diana Osmond. Do not - under any circumstances - use your real names or Sydney's. Do not mention anything about this. For the public eye, you are a married couple who are returning to your home in Switzerland after much sightseeing in the States. Understood?"  
  
  
  
Francie looks as if she is going to have a seizure. Will is just looking suspicious. What a merry crowd we are.  
  
  
  
"Ms. Calfo, have a drink. It will steady your nerves. Mr. Tippin, would you like one as well?"  
  
  
  
There is a bottle of '82 Petreuse in the liquor cabinet. Good girl.  
  
  
  
"Yeah, I'll have a drink. God knows I need one. So you're saying Sydney's been exposed, well sort of, and that we have to move to Switzerland?"  
  
  
  
"Yes. You could stay here and I could convince Sloane to spare you in order not to raise too many eyes after your SD-6 story and the heroin accusations, but it is safer to go with Ms. Calfo."  
  
  
  
"What is this? Wait, is Sydney some kind of CIA agent or something?"  
  
  
  
She seems amused. Francie, dear Francie...  
  
  
  
"That is it exactly. However, she is a double agent for SD-6, which does exist and is indeed a part of an organization that is trying to undermine the U.S. government."  
  
  
  
"So wait, Will, your story was true? And you're not a druggie? And Sydney's some kind of...spy or something?"  
  
  
  
"Yeah. Look, Francie, it's gonna take a while to get used to, but right now, we gotta move."  
  
  
  
Puppy dog gets some points.  
  
  
  
"No, this is insane. This is some kind of practical joke isn't it? There's no way in hell...  
  
  
  
"Look, Francie, this isn't a joke.  
  
  
  
"You've been lying to me the whole time? And Sydney, too? How could you do this to me?"  
  
  
  
I must say, she's going through the stages of grief remarkably quickly. Denial and anger...unfortunately, we don't have time for the others.  
  
  
  
"Ms. Calfo. I understand you are going through a severe crisis at this moment, but if you and Mr. Tippin do not leave now, you will never leave. You will not wake up another morning. So I suggest to you just take this on faith, no matter how difficult that is, and leave. You do not need to pack, there are supplies and all necessities at your destination."  
  
  
  
"What about Sydney? Is she going to be okay? And Vaughn...what about him?"  
  
  
  
He's being rather calm and accepting throughout all this, despite the fact that his life is about to change again and I had him severely tortured. I must say, where Sydney goes, amazing things (and people) follow.  
  
  
  
"I will take care of that. They will both be fine. Right now, you have to stay alive."  
  
  
  
Ok, usher them out the door and into the waiting car with my own, personal, trusted driver.  
  
  
  
I've said it before and I say now...the things I do for this woman.  
  
  
  
"Go. And remember what I told you. Be sure they arrive safely. Kill anyone who interferes."  
  
  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
  
  
And with that, they speed off.  
  
  
  
Power is such a good thing to have.  
  
  
  
And now for Sydney...Her SUV is in sight. Just in time. Alright, time for a bit of fun, however sadistic it may be. Just turn off all the lights, lock the door, and find a nice place to scare her.  
  
  
  
She's coming in...  
  
  
  
"Guys, I'm home."  
  
  
  
She seems a bit preoccupied...again. This life hasn't been kind to her.  
  
  
  
Her spy skills tell her something's off. She's good.  
  
  
  
It's easier to just knock her out for her safety. Then I can set up the suspicion about K-Directorate and coercion. It makes sense, as this would be the best time to strike with everything going on with Irina and Sloane's personal crises.  
  
  
  
"Miss Bristow."  
  
  
  
Never did I imagine it would be so difficult to hit her. Just don't look at her and focus on the nearby plant. This is for her own good. It's amazing how easily she just slips into my arms. Interesting though, that she didn't try to fight. She had a drink before going to meet her handler, I'm sure of it. I don't think she counted on having to go out again, and her preoccupation didn't help that. Just as well, it aids me greatly.  
  
  
  
"Bring the car to location 47. We will be going to my residence in Encino."  
  
  
  
"Yes sir. ETA: 7 minutes." Click.  
  
  
  
My residence.  
  
  
  
The things I do for this woman. 


	13. Relax

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Vacation. Oh, the irony.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------  
  
I hate being knocked out. Coming to is just painful, especially for my head if it's been whacked with a pistol.  
  
  
  
But it isn't too bad if I'm waking up in a bed too luxurious to be mine with a balcony view of a huge estate and a beautiful pool. And in a very comfortable satin nightgown and thick, Turkish robe. I feel like I just walked into James Bond movie, for lack of a better metaphor.  
  
  
  
This isn't right...  
  
  
  
But it sure as hell feels pretty good. Ok, time to use some of those handy spy skills...  
  
  
  
Whoa. This room is huge. King-sized bed with crimson and gold sheets, matching mahogany dresser, stand, and chair, a smaller area with a mahogany desk, leather swivel chair, and gold lamp, a bathroom almost as big as the room itself with a shower, huge bathtub, and really clean, marble sinks with gold and crimson all around. And a smooth, hardwood floor with matching Persian rugs and leather sofas around the room. A window the size of the wall of a small cabin and an outer balcony with reclining chairs and a round table with matching chairs.  
  
  
  
Whoever took me hostage would put Bill Gates and Mariah Carey to shame.  
  
  
  
Who...  
  
  
  
"Good morning, Sydney. I see you're up."  
  
  
  
I cannot express my shock in words. Sark.  
  
  
  
Although I shouldn't be surprised. Being a professional assassin and expert in espionage has got to have some perks.  
  
  
  
"What the hell is going on?"  
  
  
  
I mean, not that I'm protesting against this...ridiculously lavish commodity, but I'd like to know what I'm doing here and not in my own bed. And if he undressed me and I missed it...  
  
  
  
"You are in danger. Your two friends have been sent to Geneva. I have just received confirmation that they have safely arrived and are getting settled in and acquainted with the area. Francie is still suffering from shock, but there is a very good physician on call 24 hours and armed guards and surveillance everywhere."  
  
  
  
  
  
The who whatting how with huh?  
  
  
  
"What do Will and Francie have to do with this? And why are they in Switzerland? I swear, if you hurt them..."  
  
  
  
"Please, Sydney. Do try to calm down. You're under suspicion. The security section of SD-6 picked up some tapes of you in which they saw a recurring character - Michael Vaughn."  
  
  
  
Cue to cursing in every language I know.  
  
  
  
"That's not possible. I shook all tails, we took so many precautions..."  
  
  
  
"Your tails could've retraced your moves or merely been under the pretense of giving up. Either way, they have linking evidence. You and your handler are always facing away, but Sloane has determined that you are indeed speaking with each other. A background check on Mr. Vaughn turned up only that he was a state worker and his father was a CIA agent. Sloane suspects the worst, but I have convinced him to consider other options. Your CIA contact is safe for now. I was instructed to tail you and closely monitor your movements."  
  
  
  
It's good I convinced Kendall to create a cover for all CIA agents working with me after Sark found out about me...paranoia can be good sometimes.  
  
  
  
"What happens to Will and Francie?"  
  
  
  
"They are under the aliases of Patrice LaFont and Diana Osmond under the pretense of marriage. Will was given a job as an analytical researcher for a bank and Francie is an interior designing consultant for restaurants. Their present jobs resemble their old ones but are only loosely based and shouldn't pose a security risk. The house they live in is modeled on an Italian villa I own but they are under surveillance by armed guards 24/7 through a one-way mirror. In the case of detection and infiltration - which is quite impossible, I assure you - they have been trained in a procedure to escape through a covert route built expressly for that purpose. They are well protected."  
  
  
  
Oh, God, Francie...  
  
  
  
"And Vaughn? What about him?"  
  
  
  
"I've been sent to kill him. Oh, don't worry, I won't. I'll just do that very useful trick that your father did to Hassan."  
  
  
  
How did he know about that? Never mind, I won't even bother.  
  
  
  
"Then the CIA will know that you know that I'm a double agent."  
  
  
  
"I'll just feed them some bullshit on how I was sent to assassinate Vaughn because we think he's K-Directorate but I won't kill him if they give me what I want. They'll never know the difference. It's not like they're intelligent or anything."  
  
  
  
True.  
  
  
  
  
  
"What about Sloane? What if he finds out you did all this...and why did you do it in the first place? This doesn't make any sense! I need...I need to get out. I can't do this."  
  
  
  
Ok, Syd, jumping out of the window? Not a good idea. Compartmentalize. Don't let yourself be run over by emotions. Although Sark's arms holding you back are really a bonus...  
  
  
  
"It's okay. It'll be alright. You're not going to die and neither are your friends or your handler. Your father isn't even under suspicion unless you count an annoying investigator bitch who won't find anything. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay..."  
  
  
  
God, I could go to sleep just listening to him say that.  
  
  
  
"I've ordered my men to hack into the K-Directorate and SD-6 servers and plant a transmission coming out of Moscow detailing your recruitment. If successful, it will make it seem as if the Russians killed the agents sent by Sloane and got to you first. The point is to make Sloane think that K- Directorate is attempting to "convince" you to work for them and that they took your friends hostage. When you are able to return, I will pretend to investigate you without your knowledge. I inform Sloane that you are not a double agent and things will go back to normal just like they do every other time Sloane suspects you."  
  
  
  
Ok, calm down. Breathe. Just breathe.  
  
  
  
"Why now? I mean, why would K-Directorate try to recruit me now?"  
  
  
  
"Because of the vulnerability. With Irina seemingly out of the picture, you more preoccupied than usual, and Sloane having more mental issues than usual, the timing is perfect. Anna hasn't been on the scene for almost a year now and they need a stellar agent."  
  
  
  
Okay, sounds halfway plausible. Now to more important matters at hand...  
  
  
  
"Where are we?"  
  
  
  
Smirk. Well, not really, more of half smirk and half smile. Strange.  
  
  
  
"In one of my residences in Encino."  
  
  
  
One of them? As in there are others in different places throughout the world as lush as this?  
  
  
  
"Oh."  
  
  
  
Nice work, Syd, you can barely manage a simple acknowledgment.  
  
  
  
"I'll return you in 18 days. Ample time for kidnap, threatening, interrogation, "convincing", and escape. And as an added bonus, we get to see some entertaining chaos between K-Directorate and SD-6. The CIA has been informed that you and your friends are safe, but nothing else and not to inquire after you. Until then, you have somewhat of a vacation."  
  
  
  
A vacation.  
  
  
  
The irony is deafening.  
  
  
  
"There are clothes in the dresser and some necessary belongings in the bathroom and the desk. I believe everything is your size, but if you need anything else, just let me know."  
  
  
  
"What about the Paris mission?"  
  
  
  
"Taken care of. I have acquired a deletion program that is an exact copy of what the CIA uses. I believe Sloane has just been informed of the breach on the part of K-Directorate."  
  
  
  
Is there anything he doesn't think of? Well, time for the dramatic question that comes at some point or another in every movie and drama...  
  
  
  
"Sark...Why are you doi-"  
  
  
  
"Please. Save some questions for later. You might get bored. Make yourself comfortable and I can either send someone up with some breakfast or you can come down to the dining hall. If you need any assistance, just shout and someone will come to you."  
  
  
  
Guess not. He's just strolling out like he owns the place...wait, he does.  
  
  
  
I can't believe this. This is not happening.  
  
  
  
Why the hell couldn't I have been more careful? And why the hell won't Sark answer my question?  
  
  
  
"Sark!"  
  
  
  
"Miss Bristo-"  
  
  
  
"Back to Miss Bristow, are we? I cannot believe this is happening. Answer my damn question and don't just dismiss me like that again, ever. Do you understand?"  
  
  
  
"I see that you're going through the five stages of grief much like your friend Francie did."  
  
  
  
How dare he?  
  
  
  
"How dare you speak to me that way? What do you know about grief? You have no feelings! I've said it before as have many people, I'm sure, and I will say it again. You are a heartless killer! You don't flinch when you pull the trigger and take away someone's life with no justice whatsoever! You're not human!"  
  
  
  
Deep down, I know that's not true, it's just a defense mechanism...yadda, yadda, yadda. Right now, I just need some kind of release. And later, maybe I'll regret taking it out on him, but right now? I. Don't. Give. A. Shit.  
  
  
  
"Sydne-"  
  
  
  
"Don't speak to me that way! Not in that patro-"  
  
  
  
Louder this time, "Sydney..."  
  
  
  
"No. Answer my question! Why can't you for once just give me a damn strai- "  
  
  
  
"Sydney!"  
  
  
  
He shouts so loud the birds outside fly away. But he doesn't have a readable expression. Ok, breathe. In and out. In and out. Refocus. Just calm down.  
  
  
  
"What?"  
  
  
  
My quiet voice surprises me more than it does him. Why haven't I tried fighting yet?  
  
  
  
"I need you to trust me here. I know there is a lot going on, but-"  
  
  
  
"Trust? Trust?! Oh, that's rich. Me trust you. What, is today the day that the Alliance is really a group of harmless, jolly, old men who like to play video games? Please! Give me a break here!"  
  
  
  
I never knew Sark's patience until now. I mean, I should have known, but I don't think anyone really notices these things until the other is really put to a test of nerves...and now I'm rambling to myself in my head. I sound like Marshall, just without the cool gadgets.  
  
  
  
"Sydney, please. I need you to accept the fact that your life is going to change yet again. Can you do that?"  
  
  
  
Nod. What else am I supposed to do? I'm kind of spent now, with that soap opera-level outbreak.  
  
  
  
"I also need you to accept that there is a lot I can't tell you. It's in the job description, you of all people know that. It's going to be difficult to keep it together, now that Francie is going through something akin to what Will survived - albeit without the torture ordered by me - but it was going to happen sooner or later. In this case, it is sooner. They are not in any pressing danger, although they will never be truly safe until the Alliance is taken down. You'll be able to contact them in a few months."  
  
  
  
"A few months? I can't wait that long."  
  
  
  
There's no way...but I guess it makes sense, as Sark will no doubt explain it.  
  
  
  
"Security measures. You will be able to speak with your father and Vaughn when you get back, but no sooner. Now, I am afraid I must take your leave, but please, as I mentioned before, try to think of this as a vacation, no matter how twisted the irony. You've needed some rest, and here is the perfect opportunity. Even though it is rather impossible, try to just put all this spy crap out of your mind for just a few minutes. Have some breakfast or just say to hell with it and get drunk. Either way, just relax."  
  
  
  
What, is my mind on an open forum for all to see? How does he do that?  
  
  
  
"Okay. I'm sorry, I just..."  
  
  
  
Smile. No smirk. But throughout all this...still no expression.  
  
  
  
"Shh. It's okay, don't say it. Just relax. I'll see you when I get back."  
  
  
  
He sounds like me talking to Vaughn.  
  
  
  
"Okay. Be..."  
  
  
  
Am I really going to say this to him? Whatever, I'll blame it on my condition later.  
  
  
  
"Be careful."  
  
  
  
An expression. I think I surprised him somewhat...he's remarkably adept to keeping any reaction at bay, but I caught that look in his eyes. God, I love him...  
  
  
  
"Thank you. I will."  
  
  
  
And with that, he's gone.  
  
  
  
I need food. And a shower. And a drink. A lot of drinks, actually. Okay, let's prioritize that...Shower, food, and many drinks.  
  
  
  
Relax like he told me to. Okay, I can do that.  
  
  
  
These clothes are perfect. Exactly my size and what I like.  
  
  
  
It's like he's spying on me or something.  
  
  
  
And I really must be worn down, because I just laughed out loud at that.  
  
  
  
Okay, just relax. Relax. Relax.  
  
  
  
Just relax.  
  
  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------  
  
A/N: So is it plausible? Or way too plot-device-y (if that's a word)? By the way, "the who whatting how with huh?" is from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I stole that from Buffy, who said it in Intervention (5.18) when they accused her of doing Spike. So don't sue me for that, either. Now...REVIEW!!! ;-) I'll lend you Sark...or Vaughn, whichever you prefer... 


	14. Questions

Feedback: YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com  
  
Distribution: Anywhere - I'll say yes, just ask first.  
  
Disclaimer: Surprise - Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And Alice would've died a long time ago. Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  
  
Summary: Questions asked, answers unspoken.  
  
Rating: PG-13 (Language)  
  
Classification: Angst/Romance  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------  
  
  
  
It would be easier to just kill her and her boyfriend.  
  
  
  
She's a threat to me. I love her too much.  
  
  
  
But who the hell am I kidding? I can't kill her.  
  
  
  
But I can kill her handler.  
  
  
  
Not to do with anything intelligence-related, of course. I can just as well set up a scene and let someone else die for what I did as well as I can assassinate people without a trace.  
  
  
  
Sydney will never know. Or so says the cocky part of me, but I know she's a very intelligent girl. She'd figure it out...unless she thought it was her fault. When she's consumed by guilt, she thinks of nothing else.  
  
  
  
If Vaughn dies, I don't become exposed. The CIA, or Jack anyway, would eventually come to the knowledge that I know the Bristows' secret.  
  
  
  
Jack isn't particularly known for his trust or tolerance. Especially for that of known assassins who've attempted too undermine his and his daughter's work time and time again.  
  
  
  
It's not as if I tried to kill her or anything. If I'd wanted to, she'd be dead already.  
  
  
  
Maybe.  
  
  
  
All I must do is have the handler/Versace model killed and put it on Sloane. Say that he sent a security team anyway and I got there minutes - just minutes - too late.  
  
  
  
Wonderful. I sound like Jack now.  
  
  
  
This makes it twice in Sydney's life that the love(s) of her life has had a hit put out against him.  
  
  
  
Which makes me the second one to "attempt" to intervene.  
  
  
  
Jack will have been more successful than I, however, as I have no intention of rescuing Vaughn.  
  
  
  
She's a threat to me. I simply cannot let this be. She's bloody haunting me...I'm drowning in her. She's all I bloody think about.  
  
  
  
And that does nothing for my work.  
  
  
  
If I distance myself enough, perhaps I can be free of this insanity.  
  
  
  
Even better. I have more mental disorders than John Nash and The Old Soon- to-be-severely-maimed-if-he-retains-his-idiocy Monkey put together. All that's missing is window writing and the pedophile tendencies. First I say I love her, and now I am plotting to do the one thing that would hurt her the most - kill yet another man in her life that she cares deeply about.  
  
  
  
This is what my obsession is doing to me.  
  
  
  
I can't kill Sir Loves-a-lot...it would kill her.  
  
  
  
Perhaps even literally.  
  
  
  
But that's the only way I can retain my status and my life.  
  
  
  
What does one choose when one is a born assassin with a life-long mission of vengeance to complete, love and pain or life and reputation?  
  
  
  
"Cindy."  
  
  
  
"Yessir?"  
  
  
  
"Tell my men to send out the team. Be sure there can be no connection made to me in any way possible...trace it to Sloane. Leave no record."  
  
  
  
"Yessir, right away."  
  
  
  
Why ask a question when the answer is already known? 


	15. Burnt Toast and Clear Windows

**Feedback:** YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com

**Distribution:** Anywhere – I'll say yes, just ask first.

**Disclaimer:** Surprise – Alias doesn't belong to me!  Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money.  And Francie wouldn't be so.damn.annoying.  Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  

**Summary:**  Burnt toast and clear windows.

**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)

**Classification:** Angst/Romance

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

A/N: Crazy teachers, crazier schedule, no caffeine.  'Nuff said.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dead.  Dead.  Dead.  Dead.  Dead...

He's dead.  How? Why?

I gotta run...get away from him...whoever it is that just shot Vaughn...Oh, God, oh, God, oh God...

Sark.

And a smirk.

And an unreadable expression...

Vaughn's dead...because of Sark.  And you fell in love with the bastard.

Oh God.  Dad's here...running...don't scream don't scream don't scream...who's that screaming?

It's me.

Oh God...

Ok.  Just take a deep breath.  Just breathe.

It was just a dream...just a dream...

Vaughn's alive.

Sark didn't kill him.  And dad's okay...

But apparently I'm not...Wow.

A helluva hangover this is.  Ow.

I just need some burnt toast and Angostura bitters and I'll be fine.

Just breathe.

Whoa.  And how am I supposed to not get lost in this place?

Ok, how the hell does he get his freaking doorways and a damn hallway, for God's sake, to look elegant?

He's got good taste.  Rosewood floors, walls painted in rich colors and gold trim (which is 24 karat gold, no doubt) and fitting artwork.  A copy of Monet's Etretat...

Or, not a copy.

What, does he go all Thomas Crown Affair just for kicks?

Can't say I'm complaining though...

Crystal chandeliers in the freaking hallway.  Yep, he's got taste.

Whoa, a spiraling staircase...like I'm in a castle or something, just without the stone walls and the dungeons.  Although I wouldn't be surprised if I found either of those...

A big, circular hole in the floor along with the staircase...as if I'm inside a mall or something, looking down at the meandering, care-free, perfect people shopping around for "necessities"...

One, two, three...six rooms on this floor.  And it looks like there are thirteen on the floor below, another thirteen below that, and fifteen below that.  Which brings us to a grand total of 47 rooms...

Bedrooms, I mean...not counting the ground floor which probably has the kitchen, living room, and a bunch of big-ass, expensive rooms.

But of course, it has to be 47.  I mean where's the fun without that wacked number?

I'm gonna be seriously dizzy going down all those steps...what is this, a Goo Goo Dolls album?  An amazing CD by the way...which is a good Chili Peppers song...Ok.  Gotta cure this hangover...

Well, would you look at that.  An elevator.  There's probably one in my room as well.  Whatever, at least I can avoid the spinning heads...

Whoa.  He's got priceless artwork in the fucking elevator.  Ugh, rich people suck.

Way to go Syd, nice to see we're back in high school.

Wow.  Wowowowowowowow...

I just stepped into Martha Stewart's kitchen.  Without the nasty stock trading scandal.  I tell ya, people these days...Except it's not so cookie cutterish.  It's perfect, but it's so...Sark.

Perfect.  I always wanted to be one of those annoying ladies on TV commenting on things they pretended to know about.

Marble floor (but of course), granite countertops and state of the art cooking machinery.  It's like Marshall went and took over Williams-Sonoma.

Wide windows...Looks like the house is on a hill.  Hehe, like the house on the haunted hill...ok.  Must have caffeine and burnt stuff.  Like Busted Stuff...but not.  Never mind.

I just want Sark to be here.

Whoa.  Don't ask me where that came from, 'cuz I honestly don't know.

Honestly.

Whatever...where's the toaster?  He's gotta have one somewhere in this new age kitchen.

Yes.  Toaster.  And bread!  This is getting better and better.  Now just pop it in there for far too long...let it burn.  Burn until there's nothing left, until the passion consumes it.

Ok, I did not just relate my love life to a piece of toast.

Coffee.  Now.  Machine...ooh he has Starbucks coffee.  Yay.  Maybe I'll go do some somersaults now.

How the hell do his cleaning ladies get the windows so damn clean?  It's like there's nothing there.  Like it's been burned to nothing...I really need to stop with this fascination with burnt toast and crystal-clear windows.

There's someone here.

I feel something...spider senses at full strength.  Not the help because they'd approach me...

Floorboard cracked.  This is like a friggin' horror movie.

Ok, Syd, calm down.  The floor creaked and you felt something...not a big deal 

considering you're hungover as hell anyway.  Probably nothing.

I wish.

There's someone...oh God, someone's behind me.  I can feel it.

Ok, just stay calm.  Stay focused and regular, wait for the moment...

There's gotta be a move before I make mine...who the hell is it?

Doesn't seem evil...not really, anyway.  Ok, how about turning slowl-

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: A hanger of a cliff.  :-) Isn't it fun?  Anyway...review.  Review.  Review.  Oh, and review.  Imagine Sark's saying that to you over and over again.  Review, review, review, review...


	16. Sunrise, Sunset

**Feedback:** YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com

**Distribution:** Anywhere – I'll say yes, just ask first.

**Disclaimer:** Surprise – Alias doesn't belong to me!  Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money.  And Alice would've died a long time ago.  Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom.  Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  

**Summary:** Sunrise, sunset...

**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)

**Classification:** Angst

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

It's done.

Over.

Nothing left.

Emptiness.  At least it's better than waiting.  Anything – anything – is better than the bloody limbo.

There's nothing left here.  Time to go.

No more Captain Pretty.  Oh, well.

"Good work.  Clean the place up and trace it back to Sloane.  You know what to do."

"Yessir."

The view is breathtaking.  The sunrise with flecks of gold...and red.  Like blood.

Lord help me, I cannot be guilty over killing the handler.  There is no way I'm becoming a maudlin, oh-poor-me, evil-turned-good, dark avenger vigilante like that poof on TV.  What's his name...something about angels.

Again with the American culture references...I need a drink.  Forget the Petreuse, some Jack Daniels will do.

Not that drinking myself into a stupor will help.  I need to get back to Sydney and be the comforting, evil super-spy and make sure she doesn't suspect me.

How farfetched is that.  Bloody hell...

I always liked sunsets better.  Maybe it's the finality of it, knowing that the day is over, night has begun.  Or maybe because night is when the life starts.

I am the sunset to Sydney's sunrise.

Jesus, now I sound like a sodding poet.

Jack Daniels.  There was never a better savior on the face of the earth.

Well, there was Jesus Christ.

Drinking and deep, theological thoughts never go well.  Especially when it's sunrise and I still have a day ahead of me to live through.

No more sunrise.  Just the sun.  The worst part of sunrise...the fact that there's the sun and another day to lie, kill, and maim through.

Since when am I guilty or sentimental?  This alcohol...I need to stop.

Close your eyes.  Clear your mind.  Focus on the black, the darkness.  Just drift.

Take a breath.  And another.  Don't think, don't reflect, don't feel.

Just drift.

Another breath.

Abre los ojos.

Tabula rasa.

A meditation technique from Irina before she went soft and turned herself in to the fools at the Chaotic Insipid Atrocity.

But then, who am I to speak?

I broke all the rules and fell in love with the harbinger of all that is sickly and good.

Only because rules are made to be broken.

Right.  Justifying something that can't be justified or even reasoned with.

Shrill, piercing, ringing.

Ow.

Ring.

What the bloody hell is that sou...oh.  My cell phone.

Shit, can't sound drunk.

Ring.

Fucking phone, shut up for a second will you?

"Yeah?"

"Sir, there's been a problem."

A problem...dammit, it's the bloody Armani mode-

"Sir?  Sir, are you there?  There's been a breach.  Subject 47 has not been eliminated...sir?  Si-"

Nothing but darkness...abre los ojos...

Is it sunset already?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Muahahahaha.  I apologize if you didn't completely understand the end...sometimes my muse takes control of everything and refuses to explain for a while.  Hmmm...so I guess that's two cliffhangers in a row.  I've never been this evil before...hehehe.  Must be the caffeine.  By the way, abre los ojos is open your eyes in Spanish.  Just thought I'd drop that in there...But on to pressing matters.  My muse has been taken hostage and the evil perpetrator demands $100,000,000,000,000 is reviews.  It's up to you...:-)


	17. The Point of No Return

**Feedback:** YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com

**Distribution:** Anywhere – I'll say yes, just ask first.

**Disclaimer:** Surprise – Alias doesn't belong to me!  Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money.  And Alice would've died a long time ago.  Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom.  Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  

**Summary:**

**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)

**Classification:** Angst

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Damn.

That's twice in like three days that I've been knocked out.  Or something like that, don't ask me...

And I didn't even get to cure my hangover so I'm stuck with the mother of all headaches.

If it was Sark again...but no.  Looking at this shithole, I'm thinking it was Alliance or the CIA fools.  It's a standard, grey, shitty warehouse with a pile of...stuff in the corner along with boxes.

"Sydney."

"Vaughn?  What's going o-"

Oh my God.  Eight years of spy crap and I've never been shocked at the sight of blood...before now.

"It's okay.  I'm alright."

"No, you're not."

"Really, I am.  But we really need to talk."

Looking closer, most of the wounds are dressed and bandaged, but I guess he hasn't bothered to change or shower or, you know, go to a hospital...

"What happened?  Who did this?"

Okay, Syd, calm down.  Barricade the flood of questions and just let the man speak.

"Someone's been ordered to kill me.  Last night – I guess it was more this morning – I was reading because I couldn't sleep.  How could I, knowing you were under suspicion and with Sark?"

Oh, Lord...

"Vaughn..."

"No.  We don't have much time, I need to explain.  I heard the lock click, so I grabbed my gun which I had with me out of habit.  They were expecting me to be asleep, I guess, so most of the men – there were about ten – were sent upstairs.  Two were sent to search my apartment.  Well I was hiding behind the kitchen counter and knocked the first one that came.  The other saw that and was ready for me and hit me before I had a chance to shoot.  He radioed the others before I had a chance to knock him out.  I did eventually, but the rest of the men began too shoot.  I got hit in the shoulder and leg, along with being bashed in the head against my own kitchen counter...an unpleasant experience, let me tell you that.  Well the neighbors had heard my gunshots and called the police, who came.  Unfortunately, Sark's men are much more profici-"

Holy.fucking.shit.

My dream...No.  It couldn't be.  Not Sark, not Sark, not Sark...

"Sark?  What the hell...no.  It wasn't him."

Oh God.  I just defended him to the one person who can't know...good going, Syd.  Now you get to face incredulous(ly hot...no, wait...) looks from the one person you can't bullshit.

"Sydney?  What's going on?  Did something...no.  No.  He didn't...you..."

I don't think I've ever seen Vaughn speechless before.

"No!  No, God no..."

"Then why the hell are you defending that blonde bastard?"

Or this angry.  With me anyways...did he just call Sark a blonde bastard?

"Sark wouldn't have done this!  He told me Sloane sent him, but he also said he'd fake your death and keep you safe.  Sloane must have sent another team."

Nononononononono.  Don't believe anyone but most of all don't believe me...

Denial.  Anger, bargaining...

"Syd, I'm telling you, _it was him_.  The team managed to down the whole police force that was sent, but some were taken down in the process.  I managed to fight the two that were left.  The last one I forced to call whoever sent him.  I held him at gunpoint and he specifically called Sark and under my orders told him everything had gone according to plan.  Sark sent men to kill me."

The dream...

No.  Sark...I cannot believe I trusted that bastard...no, it couldn't have been him...

"Syd, we gotta move.  I found out your location from the guy and came straight to you after I stopped myself from bleeding all over the floor.  We're in a CIA warehouse in between Encino and L.A. now, but we have to get back to headquarters.  You may have to go into Witness Protection to-"

"Why did you knock me out?"

"What?"

What, is he hard of hearing?

"_Why did you knock me out?_"

"Syd, I had to.  I kne-"

"Don't call me that."

What am I doing?

"Syd, what do you...No.  I can't believe you...this has to be a joke."

Oh God, he knows...well its kind of hard for him not to notice as I basically slapped him in the face with it.  I didn't mean to...it slipped out as if...as if...

"What is going on between you and Mr. Sark?"

"Nothing.  Nothing, we just..."

Truth serum.  That's why I'm automatically inclined to answer the questions truthfully...

He's on the ground before I can stop myself.

"_What the hell did you do to me?_"

"Syd..."

"It's Agent Bristow.  And you better explain in 15 words or less or I will hurt you."

What am I doing...this is Vaughn.  God, I can't believe this...

"The CIA sent me to find out information about you and Sark."

"So what the whole assassination thing was a setup, a lie?"

I've never raised my voice so high with Vaughn.

"No.  It was real.  The CIA received some evidence arousing suspicion about you and Sark and the assassination attempt was all they needed.  I contacted them just after the attack and Kendall decided it would be the best plan to send me to extract information from you.  Syd, I'm sorry, it wasn't to hurt you.  I...we needed to know."

A strange feeling.  I've never hated someone I loved before.  Mom and dad came close...but it wasn't anything like this.

"You betrayed me.  You knocked me out, dragged me to this shithole and messed with my head to try to get information about something that doesn't even exist.  Half of that red crap on you isn't blood, is it?  If I wasn't specifically trained to fight the effects of sodium pentothal, I would have told you everything you had no business in, except maybe my bra size!"

"God, Syd..."

"There is nothing – nothing – going on between Sark and me.  He is protecting me from the suspicions of Sloane, _that is it_.  I don't know what false information the CIA received, but you are all idiots."

"False information?  The night I called you for the countermission for the Paris op, you were an hour late.  An hour, Syd.  Anything could've happened to you and I sat there in the warehouse just imagining all these terrible things _because I care_.  You finally called to tell me you were okay and that there had been a personal crisis."

Shit.  No, they can't know...

"What are you saying, Vaughn?"

How the hell did he manage to get on his feet and pull out a folder from a briefcase that I hadn't even noticed?

Oh God...

"A personal crisis, I see.  One that you cried on the shoulder of a known murderer about."

"How did you get these?"

I can't believe my voice is so controlled.

"When you agreed to give Sloane to Sark, Kendall was immediately suspicious.  He had your car tracked at all times with a bug that could not be detected by the killer you have in your backseat.  He hired experienced agents set up in strategic points whenever your car was started up.  That night was no different.  An agent was on the roof of the building next to which you and Sark met.  He took photos of you consorting with that...thing."

His face...God, his face has such, such disgust...

But what gives him the right to tail me?  To _spy_ on me?  As if my life wasn't fucked up enough already?

And I could've sworn that pile just moved...No.  Hallucinations bad,

"What gives you the right to monitor my life?  It may be one full of sacrifices of personal privacy, but that in no way gives you the right to violate me like that.  You should have just asked me, Vaughn.  Not use this truth serum crap that doesn't even work on me.  I worked with Sark because it was in your best interest.  _I did it for you_."

God, I hate this...but there's no turning back now.  Lie yourself out of this mess...he can't know anything about Sark and how...how you love him.

"That night?  I was drunk.  I was drinking when I got that Joey's Pizza call.  Sark tailed me to tell me the specs of the Paris mission.  I don't know why the hell he chose to do it at that minute, but he did.  My inhibitions had been lowered.  I had been relaxing after a very crappy day only to be called out again for this, this _job_ if you can even call it that.  Sark messed with my mind, which was already extremely affected, and I did something that I will never – ever – do again.  Alcohol, Vaughn.  There is no, no _consorting_ as you put it, between Sark and me."

He looks so guilty.  I can't look at him...

"Syd, I am so, so sorry.  I-"

"You _lied_ to me.  You knocked me out to bring me here to deceive me in letting on things that aren't even true.  You...you've become what my mother was.  Except she's changed."

Oh God...I went too far.  But too late now...I'm past the point of no return.

"I am not your mother.  She killed my father, remember that?"

So hurt...but he brought it upon himself.

"She's changed.  She's saved your – my – life more than once, if you recall.  But you...I will never forgive you for this.  Ever."

No.  What the hell am I doing...

"Syd..."

So much pain.

"I told you not to call me that."

This, this thing with Vaughn and me has to end now.  I can't deal with both him and Sark...oh.my.God.  I'm choosing a known killer over Vaughn.  Someone who tried to kill Vaughn, for all I know.  And I couldn't care less.

"What are you saying?  Wha...what's going on?"

"This can't happen anymore.  The whole protocol thing...it's so dangerous.  Look what happened with Sloane.  I was almost exposed.  My life and yours were compromised.  They must have pictures of the pier, too, Vaughn.  Every time we break protocol, everything is put in danger.  When I get back to L.A. after all this is over, I'm requesting a new handler."

Bullfuckingshit.  A new handler?  Protocol?  I couldn't care less.

But that was before Sark.

"Syd, no.  You ca-"

"_It's Agent Bristow_."

He's stricken.  And so am I.  This is the wrong choice, the wrong path and I'm going to be burned.  I can feel it...and yet I can't stop myself.  God, what's wrong with me?

"Take me back to Encino.  Sark will be back soon, and I need to speak with him."

He's angry...

"The bastard tried to kill me, _Agent Bristow_.  He sent out a team to shoot me in the head in my own home and you need to speak with him?  I will give you thirty seconds before I report you as a traitor to the U.S. government."

_What_?

He's as serious as I am.  Only one way...

"It wasn't him, _Agent Vaughn_.  It must have been a setup by Sloane.  Sark did not try to-"

"No?  _No_?  Well then, you'll just have to ask him yourself."

What the-

There is no pile in the corner.

It's Sark.

"What did you do to him?"

For now, I couldn't care less that Vaughn will know, I just need to know if Sark's okay.

"I was ordered to bring him in for questioning.  Right after we got you, we sent to Sark's location and brought you both here."

Wait...

"We?"

"There is a team of agents outside."

"You bastard."

"Syd..."

"It's Agent Bristow, dammit!"

"Syd?"

"Are you deaf or some-"

Wait.  That wasn't Vaughn...

"Sark?"

He's up in a second and before I know it, he's pinned Vaughn to the chain-link fence.

"Fifteen words or less, Mr. Vaughn."

How does he read my mind like that?  Not important now...

"Sark, get off of him."

He's pissed, but he let's go.  I don't think I've ever seen him pissed before...It's a day of firsts.

"Sy-Agent Bristow, he attempted to assassinate me."

"No.  It was a setup by Sloane to divert the blame if something went wrong.  Yes, Mr. Vaughn, I was sent to kill you, but I found you were Miss Bristow's handler for the CIA.  And yes, I do know about her double agent status.  I decided to help rather then eliminate you, because contrary to popular belief, I do not intend for Miss Bristow to be harmed in any way.  I have a plan, yes, but her death is not involved."

I'd breathe a sigh of relief if I could.

"Your men contacted you with the information that I was not killed.  I specifically heard one of your...minions...tell you that Subject 47 was not eliminated.  I believe it is clear that I am Subject 47."

No.  It can't be...

"You are mistaken, Mr. Vaughn.  Subject 47 is Ana Espinosa.  I received intel only yesterday that she is indeed active and was sent by K-Directorate to kill Miss Bristow due to the slight conflict I caused between SD-6 and the Russian government.  I sent a team out to kill her, but it appears they were unsuccessful."

"Bullshit.  You're lying, one of the men sent to kill me specifically contacted you and you replied."

I am utterly and completely confused.

"As I said before, Mr. Vaughn, it was a setup by Sloane.  He most likely instructed his men to contact me in such a case you put them in, and I had been waiting for a confirmation that you were safe.  I mistakenly believed it to be such a call, and so I replied in the fashion of a code that I had instructed my men to follow in case there was a third party listening to the conversation."

He's not lying.  No movements, no shying of eye contact...but it's Sark.  He could be...but no.  Even someone as good as he is at this crap would give a sign.

"Syd, he's lying."

"Vaughn, I have every reason to believe he's telling the truth.  Unless you want me killed, you will release us both until this whole thing with Sloane blows over."

I can't believe I'm taking Sark's word over Vaughn's.  But Sark has never lied to me before...unlike the CIA, whatever those letters mean.

"Syd...Agent Bristow.  Sark has no proof that he is innocent, and-"

"Vaughn, do you want me to die?  Do you want me to be exposed?"

The guilt is consuming me...but it's the only way.

"Fine."

He makes a call and escorts us outside to be taken to Encino.

Sark has no expression, Vaughn's just shocked while explaining everything to Kendall and convincing him Sark is innocent, whatever that word means...

Sark gets out and enters the hou-mansion gate without a second glance.  The place is just as majestic on the outside...

"Be careful, Sy...Agent Bristow."

I was too harsh.  Too impulsive...trusting Sark over Vaughn?  The sky is falling...

"I'll see you back in L.A., Vaughn."

Shit, I just called him Vaughn.  Talk about hypocrisy.

His face isn't so pained for a moment...and then it's the same as before.

"Syd..."

"Goodbye, Agent Vaughn."

Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back...

It's easier with Vaughn.  Why?

I can't believe I trust Sark.

This is the point of no return...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: If you think this chapter sucked or just wasn't plausible or whatever...rock on, because I agree with you.  I'm just not happy about most of it, but every time I try to change it, it doesn't seem to help...so here it is.  :-) Sorry if it wasn't enjoyable, the next one will hopefully be a little better.  Oh, and "don't believe anyone, but most of all don't believe me" is from an Eels song called Mr. E's Beautiful Blues.  The Eels rock, listen to them **now** if you've never heard them...Anyway, please review!  With all this schoolwork and winter finals coming up, a girl needs some encouragement...(shameless, I know).  See that purple button on the bottom left corner?  You get a prize if you click it and type something and then click submit.  You get your choice of Vaughn or Brad Pitt...because Sark is mine.  Muahahahahahaha...okay, need caffeine.  Don't mind my ramblings.  Thank you so much for reading and for all the amazing reviews so far...I tend to agree that Syd might be a tad out of character, but she's not easy to decipher aside from those longing looks of passion to a certain (hot) handler.  So I'm just writing what I think she really might be like inside...the spy crap must've done _something_ to her, don't you think?  Okay, shutting up now...By the way, I most likely won't be following the storyline with the whole Alliance takedown, spy sex, and the cloning machine.  IMHO, J.J. seems to have watched James Bond _way_ too many times.  Nothing against James Bond, but I didn't particularly love the whole cloning thing, although Francie is just so much cooler now.  Although...poor Will.  I may, however, employ this in the future if I become ridiculously lazy and decide that wicked obvious plot devices (clones) and audience attraction (spy sex) is the way to go.  I did at first think the whole Alliance takedown was way too soon, but seeing as Sloane and Sark are being all thick as thieves about it, I actually love it now.  I'm probably going to take advantage of all those spoilers on Bad!Vaughn, though...no innuendo intended, of course...okay I will now officially end the longest A/N I have ever written...or read...in my whole entire existence...REVIEW!!! :-)


	18. Not Quite

**Feedback:** YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com

**Distribution:** Anywhere – I'll say yes, just ask first.

**Disclaimer:** Surprise – Alias doesn't belong to me!  Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money.  And Alice would've died a long time ago.  Or at least been Vaughn's mom or something...I swear, she's such a soccer mom.  Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  

**Summary:**  Not quite.

**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)

**Classification:** Angst

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Bloody hell.

She trusts me.  She took my word over her precious handler's and even fought him about it.

_And the world is spinning around..._

There's no way she...

But I can't think anything else.  The evidence is conclusive.

What am I saying, evidence...Fuck it.  She fell for me just as I fell for her.

Only she doesn't know the last part.

The sodium pentothal must have worn her out.  I don't think I've ever seen her just drift off like that.  Of course, the fact that she has a bitch of a hangover may have something to do with it as well.

Flutter.

She's pretending.

"Sydney, love, those bloody teen actors on that frog station can act better than you can.  Do get up."

"Did you do it?"

Straight and to the point.  Well I might as well give her a straight answer, true or false.

"No."

"Sark..."

I can't lie to her much longer.  Alright, change the subject...

"Hungry?"

"Um..."

"I'll send Beatrice up.  Just tell her what you want, she can cook anything."

"Sark, we need to talk."

And so it begins.

"Very well then.  Speak."

She's flustered.  Interesting.

"Alright then, since it seems you have lost your penchant for words, I'll start."

Anger.  Good.

"Do you absolutely have to be an asshole about everything I say?"

"You insist on portraying me as a cold-blooding, killing machine and yet you chose me over your precious handler."

She doesn't flinch.

"Don't flatter yourself.  The only reason I chose you is because I need to keep myself alive and you're more capable of that than the CIA is."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Rise, turn, leave.

"Sark, get back he-"

"I have places to be.  As I said before, do try to relax."

I don't think she's ever been shot down like that by anyone.  It would be a bit more enjoyable if I wasn't so preoccupied, however.

"Beatrice, would you kindly tend to Ms. Jones?"

"Yes, Mr. Sark sir.  Will you be traveling again?"

"As a matter of fact, I am.  I'll be back in a week or so."

Not quite.  More like a day or so.

"Where to this time, sir?"

Bratsk.

"Tokyo."

"Have an enjoyable trip, sir.  Do you need any arrangements made?"

Sweet old lady.  Too bad she'll be dead by sunrise.

"There's no need, Beatrice.  But thank you."

Packing – all set.  The men are stationed in on the Angara waiting for my command.  The ride should be here right about...now.

Time to go.

Just one more call.

"Sloane."

"It's Sark."

"Ah, yes.  Mr. Sark.  I trust everything is well?"

As if you're my master, you monkey-headed, grey son of a bitch.

"Yes.  I think I may have a lead on Sydney Bristow and her friends' captors."

"K-Directorate.  We've already established this."

I wish it were that simple.

"As likely as it seems, that is incorrect.  I have just received intel on this matter."

"And what might that be?"

"Irina Derevko."

"Irina Derevko is dead."

Not quite.

"No.  She is in CIA custody.  Sydney Bristow is indeed a double agent and is now in hiding.  Irina orchestrated the escape of her two friends as well.  They are in a safe house in Krakow."  Well, not quite.

Pause.

"Very well.  You know what to do."

Click.

This is perfect.  Now on to Russia...


	19. Blurry

**Feedback:** YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com

**Distribution:** Anywhere – I'll say yes, just ask first.

**Disclaimer:** Surprise – Alias doesn't belong to me!  Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money.  And Marshall would be have more that a grand total of three lines per episode.  Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  

**Summary:**  

**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)

**Classification:** Angst

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

I put my life in his hands.

I put my life in the hands of an ice-cold bastard who could've tried to kill Vaughn.

But I know he didn't.  There is no way Sark could've done that after everything.  He swore to me he would save Vaughn.

Something's not right.

I can't...I can't remember anything.  Every time I try to think back to that crappy warehouse, my mind gets all fuzzy.  Like a watercolor in a dream.

It's probably the pentothal.  That son of a bitch, giving me a fucking truth serum, messing with my mind like that!

I thought I loved him once.  And I was wrong, as usual.

I could worry about it, brood over whether or not I made the right choice with Sark, but then my forehead might wrinkle like he-who-shall-not-be-named (coughVaughncough).

Ugh.  I still can't believe he would do such a...stupid stuPID THING!

Ok, that glass was _not_ supposed to meet the wall like that.  Great.  Now there's brandy all over the dresser, not to mention sharp pieces of glass all over the floor.  And the old lady's coming to see if there's something wrong.  Bertha or...Beatrice.  That's her name.

3...2...

"Mi-Miss Jones?  Is there something wrong?"

Right on time.

"No, no, I'm sorry.  The glass just slipped out of my hand.  I'll clean it up, don't worry about it.  Thanks."

Riiight.  Slipped out of my hand across the fucking room.  Whatever.  Just smile and send her off.

"Oh, that's all right.  I can clean it up, miss.  Let me just get a broom and mop."

No, _really_.  Just leave me alone.

"It's fine, really.  I can take care of it.  I insist."

Oh, thank the Lord.  She's gone.

Ok, glass first.  Ow, that's sharp.

Ring.

And that's friggin loud.

"Hello?"

"Sydney."

Dad?

"Dad!  Wha-"

"You have to get out of there."

Okay, so much for greetings.

"Why?  What's go-"

"The CIA sent your mother and I on a mission together.  We were to recover a disc from Bratsk that had critical information of previous dealings between the Alliance and several high-ranking Iraqi leaders and the dictator of North Korea, Kim Jong Il.  We-"

My mother?  On a mission?

"Wait.  You let mom go on a mission?"

"There was no other choice.  She had the greatest knowledge of the area and the people we were dealing with.  You were in Sark's custody-"

"I am not in his _custody_!  I'm staying here until Sloa-"

"Not now, Sydney.  Just listen.  As I was saying, there were no other competent agents for a mission of this level.  Your mother was tagged with a large tracking device that I removed without the knowledge of Kend-"

Ok, he's officially insane.

"You _removed_ the tracking device?  Are you-"

"_Will you please just listen?_"

Whoa.

"Sorry."

"Thank you.  The tracking device was removed because she was certain to be swept for bugs the second she set foot into the compound where the disc was kept.  But without her knowledge, I tagged her with a second, passive device in case things were to go awry."

"How did you do that?"

Silence.  He's avoiding the subject.

"Your mother and I-"

"Dad, how'd you do it?"

"That is not relevant.  Anyhow, when we arrived at the compound-"

"I think it is.  How'd you plant the device?"

"Sydney, we are running out of time here.  If I am to finish telling you all of this, you need to shut up and listen."

Ouch.  Okay, fine.

"When we arrived at the compound, I hid in one of the rooms in a guard's uniform while your mother went to the leader of the place, an old acquaintance.  She forced him to hand over the disc and ran.  I met her at the entrance and we fought our way out of the area only to have a black helicopter pick up Irina.  Sydney, Sark and Sloane were in the chopper.  I'm calling from a safe house in Krakow right now.  We're both exposed.  You need to get out of there and-"

What the fuck?

"Dad?  Dad?  Dad, answer me!"

Click.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I know, I know.  Please don't stone me.  I had boatloads and boatloads of work, except I just found this chapter.  I had forgotten that I wrote one and didn't publish it.  Anyway, did I mention the part where this is now AU?  Like, completely?  Because there is no way in hell I can make this make sense with the actual storyline, seeing as how **I don't know what the actual storyline is**.  J.J.'s much to brilliant for me...I can't understand a thing in the season finale.  But it was still kickass.  Except, who here actually believes Vaughn would have gotten over Sydney in two years?  I mean, please.  That's more bullshit than the CIA, SD-6, and Bush combined.  But maybe the last two years were like the last two years of the show, meaning nothing that happened in the last two years actually happened...ok, I'm not drunk, I swear.  Going now...clickity click on the pretty (blue, purple, periwinkle) button!  Please?  With swanky sunglasses on top?


	20. Destruction

**Feedback:** YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com

**Distribution:** Anywhere – I'll say yes, just ask first.

**Disclaimer:** Surprise – Alias doesn't belong to me!  Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money.  And I would actually **know what's going on**.  What the _hell _happened in the season finale, anyway?  Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  

**Summary:**  

**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)

**Classification:** Angst

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Perfect.

"Sark, you son of a-"

"Now, now, Mr. Bristow, we wouldn't want to lose our tempers now, would we?"

If looks could kill, I'd certainly be six feet under.  This is really quite amusing.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?  If you hurt Sydney..."

"Jack, please.  You pain me.  I thought we were better friends than that...you know I would never do anything to hurt Sydney.  She's like a _daughter_ to me."

Ah, yes.  Glad you could join us, oh King of Primates.

"Mr. Sloane.  Glad you could join us."

"Thank you, Mr. Sark.  That'll be all for now."

As if I were a maid.  Nonetheless...

"Just as well, I have some unfinished business to attend to.  Do enjoy your stay, Mr. Bristow."

Smirk.  Honestly, if the man didn't have so much self-control, I do believe he would have torn my head off with his bare hands.  Comical, really.

Damage control time.  No doubt Sydney is quite distraught, especially with the possibility that Irina has betrayed her yet again.

"Sark."

Speaking of the devil.

"Irina."

"You must go to Sydney.  She will think that we have both betrayed her, something you know is a lie."

Wait.  What is she trying to say?  I did betray her.  I'm an evil assassin.

"I don't understand.  We did betray her; CIA couldn't get their hands on that disc and we prevented it.  You know that and so does Jack."

"The information on that disc will kill her."

Kill her...so, not terrorist dealings after all.

"Excuse me?"

"The CIA has no clue as to really what information is on that disc.  They believe it holds transmissions between the Alliance, Iraq, and North Korea.  But actually, the disc is a key."

"A key."

"Yes.  It's the key to a vault buried deep in a cave in Italy."

Italy.  No, not this business again.  Not...

"Beneath Mt. Sebacio."

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A/N: Okay, okay, I know.  Shoot me.  I haven't updated since the Red Sox lost the World Series, I realize that.  But I haven't abandoned this, I've just had boatloads and boatloads of work...I've only seen one episode of Alias this season.  *bows head in shame*  And I know this chapter is really short but I have Thanksgiving break now so I promise to add more really, really soon.  Review please!  Please! In exchange I will decapitate our dear No-Accent!Lauren.  Although I just might do that anyway.  Grrr.  Don't like her.  But anyway...I know I don't make sense.  Sleepy now.  But review!!!


	21. Beyond Reason

**Feedback:** YanKeEsNYrOck33@hotmail.com

**Distribution:** Anywhere – I'll say yes, just ask first.

**Disclaimer:** Surprise – Alias doesn't belong to me!  Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money.  And Marshall would be have more that a grand total of three lines per episode.  Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.  

**Summary:**  

**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)

**Classification:** Angst

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"Dad?  Dad, where are you?  Dad, pick up!"

Okay Syd, put the phone down.  Destroying it will do nothing but hurt you in the long run.

What was he thinking?  Removing mo-_Iri_na's tracking device?  Is he **that** stupid?

Sark.  No, he can't have done...but all this denial crap is bullshit and I know it.  I knew it when I left Vaughn in that car, knew it when I was screaming at him in the warehouse.  I've lost all sense of reason.

Because of a smooth-talking assassin with killer blue eyes.

What was I thinking?  Trusting Sark?  Am I **that** stupid?

Maybe there's a reasonable explanation for all of this.  What if...maybe Sark was working as a double, pretending to work for Sloane.  Him and mom...him and Irina must have been trying to take Sloane down and obtain the disc so they could give it to the CIA.  No, don't be stupid Syd, they wouldn't give it to the CIA, they'd take it for themselves.  But for a good reason, not just for their evil whims.

I need to stop talking to myself.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Better.

The balcony is gorgeous.  In any other world I would be enjoying the sunrise right now.  Or I would still be sleeping.  Or I would've actually slept last night instead of spending 8 hours looking for my phone on the floor where I thought I threw it, only to find it still in my hand.  Wow, no more alcohol for Syd.

Hooray, I'm still talking to myself.

Beatrice.  Maybe she knows what's going on.  Or where Sark is.

I wonder if he has one of those pully things that rings a bell for help...yep, right next to the curtain.

No answer.

Maybe she's sleeping.

Still no answer.

Okay...fine.  I can find the kitchen and look for her from there.  Everything's fine, except that nagging pull in my head that tells me...

Beatrice is dead.

Okokok...she's still warm.  No visible wounds, blood, or wounds...no pulse, either.  No dry mouth, so no fear.

Actually, the opposite of dry mouth...seems like she drank something that smells like...garlic.  Her hand is still clenched.

Arsenic.

He poisoned her, the bastard.  She was probably the only one in the house since he was only going to be here for a short period of time.

A coroner needs to come...and what, take me in and question me so I can reveal the whereabouts of a known terrorist?

Right.

There's only one thing I can do and I'd rather climb Mt. Sebacio again.  Well, it wasn't so bad...it would've been nice, actually, if I hadn't been going through the whole evading-the-CIA-and-hoping-I-won't-destroy-the-world thing.

My hands are shaking so much that I feel like a druggie.

Ring.

"Vaughn here."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Another short chapter, I know.  But hey, 2 updates in less than a decade!  Yarooh!  Hopefully I'll post some more by the end of this week.  But only if there are reviews...lack of feedback = lack of inspiration = one pissed muse.  :-D  Review please!  With a Captain Jack Sparrow on top?  Wait, no...he's mine, sorry.  You can have that Orlando Bloom kid.  Hehehe.  R E V I E W!  Purple buttons are _pretty_.


	22. The Passenger

**Feedback:**

**Distribution:** Anywhere – I'll say yes, just ask first.

**Disclaimer:** Surprise – Alias doesn't belong to me! Or else I wouldn't be searching for hours just for some Starbucks money. And that complete _cow_ with no accent would never had existed. Everything belongs to J.J. Abrams, ABC, Touchstone, and Bad Robot.

**Summary:**

**Rating:** PG-13 (Language)

**Classification:** Angst

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"I will not stand by and watch her life be once again _fu-_"

"I do hope the word you were about to use was _fouled _and not something indicating the act of making love, my dear Mr. Sark."

This woman is going to be the death of me. Or if it is not her, it will be her damn daughter.

"Clever, Irina. Now let us skip the cra- _superfluous_ _words_ and please return to the business at hand. Sydney is not going to Mount Sebacio. You said so yourself, the information on the disc will kill her."

I despise that smirk more than anything in the world. Although that's probably where I get mine from. At any rate, mine is surely exponentially more attractive than forehead wrinkles. And this is really not the time to be thinking these absurd thoughts.

"You know, for a second there, you sounded like you had a blood-pumping organ in the cavity in which that black as resides. If I may ask, what is it about my daughter that captivates you so?"

Wonderful. The "talk" that is imminently inevitable. Talk about awkward…at least Jack Loaded-M4-for brains Bristow isn't present to cut into this…

"Jack. How nice of you to slyly escape from the unlocked and unguarded room and join us. We were just discussing Mr. Sark and his…_allegiance_ to our daughter."

Right. Well then…

"What the _fu-_"

"_Foulness _is going on? Why, that _is_ an interesting question, isn't it? If you really all must know…Sydney's life is in danger. Again."

Stare. Looks like Jack has the same thought I do…

"No. Really. And who PUT HER THERE?!"

Dear me, the man is quite distressed.

"Mr. Bristow, if I may-"

Ow. Hands on neck just itching to crunch…great. This is absolutely wonderful.

"Sydney needs to take this disc – for heaven's sake, Jack, he's turning blue, do ease up – and go to Mt. Sebacio. Restraint would be nice. Yes, good. Calm. _Breathe_. Both of you. To continue…this is the key to a vault. Inside of the vault is the address of a home in Argentina where there lives an old woman that will point her to Chechnya by way of the Hourglass."

Stare.

"Irina…this is Sydney's _life_. Not some complicated plot twist on an American television show."

"Julian-"

_Wince_. Oh, don't roll your eyes…

"_Sark_. Drop the sarcasm for just a little while so we can save my daughter's life."

"Agreed. What is in Chechnya?"

"The Passenger."

I do believe that is the first time I have seen Jack Bristow really off-guard.

"You lied to me."

"And this is news…how?"

Wow Jack, narrow your eyes any more and you'll be Asian.

"You told me it wasn't true. That there was absolutely no connection to _our_ daughter. _Absolutely none_."

"I lied."

"How _dare_ you? How _dare _you waltz around playing with Sydney's – not to mention _my_ – life? How can you-"

"I'm hardly _waltzing_, Jack. This was necessary and proper; some things I just can't reveal and you know perfectly well that-"

"I don't know _anything_ perfectly well. In fact-"

"Why don't we save this precious lovers' tiff for a later date and right now focus on what to actually _do_? And while we are working our way towards that, Irina can politely inform me what the _hell_ you were just talking about."

I don't think I've ever had two such powerfully venomous looks thrown at me at the same exact moment in the same exact manner. I guess couples really do begin to look alike as they become older…

"As much as it sickens me to say this, Sark is right. We must focus on action. Irina, you and I both know that Sydney cannot know about this…_abomination_. First, we have to take care of Sloane. He…"

"Is standing right here, Jack. Please, do continue. Meanwhile, I'll decide whether or not to order the hit on your daughter, shall I?"


End file.
